A Question of You
by CosmicZombie
Summary: It somehow bothered Jimmy more than he cared to admit that he still didn't really know Thomas any better than he had done on the day of the fair.
1. Chapter 1

Part One

It was something which had happened so slowly that Jimmy had barely even noticed it until it suddenly crushed him and he couldn't breathe.

But if he had to choose the moment where it begun, he knew exactly which moment he'd pick. It was several months earlier in late October, on a night like any other. Midnight had howled around the house and shattered rain against the darkened windows of the servants' hall, where Jimmy had thought he was the only one left. His ached with tiredness, but he couldn't bring himself to stop messing about on the piano, fingers still fumbling out chords and half-melodies when the sudden, heady smell of smoke curled through the air, making him turn around in surprise.

The servants' hall was dimly lit and deserted— apart from Thomas. The other man was still sitting at the table, and had been leaning back in his chair, eyes shut, smoke curling from between his lips— but his eyes flickered open at the sudden silence, surprisingly vivid against the pallor of his face.

"My mother used to play that," he said quietly, taking a slow drag of his cigarette and glancing briefly over at Jimmy, who watched the smoke unfurl around the other man in enigmatic tendrils, letting his fingers hover uncertainly over the piano keys.

"Every night," Thomas added, exhaling slowly so that the smoke coiled round him more thickly. "When I was meant to be asleep."

It struck Jimmy with surprising intensity that this was the first time in their few shaky months of friendship that Thomas had said anything remotely personal— normally they just laughed at Alfred or discussed how boring the main articles in the newspapers were or concocted ideas about Lady Mary's latest conquests. Jimmy always talked about himself; not big things, just silly little things like how he hated Mrs. Patmore's rice pudding or the dream he'd had last night or what he was reading— but Thomas never talked about himself. Not ever.

It somehow bothered Jimmy more than he cared to admit that he still didn't really know Thomas any better than he had done on the day of the fair.

He wasn't quite sure why. Jimmy couldn't have predicted it when he made the guilty offer of friendship, but Thomas had come to fascinate him; Jimmy had never met anyone who was quite like him. His expression was always so carefully emotionless, and he rarely gave anything away. It was only when he was caught off guard— when he smiled or laughed or was caught by surprise— that Jimmy caught the smallest of glimmers of what was underneath the careful mask.

Jimmy hated that he couldn't figure Thomas out at all, couldn't understand him one little bit. The more time he spent with Thomas, the closer he felt to him— yet the less he understood him. All he knew was that he couldn't but help feel an increasing curiosity towards the other man; a desperation to know more of the glimmers of sincerity that occasionally evaded Thomas' careful façade.

"You realise that's the first thing you've ever told me about yourself," Jimmy announced, turning around properly and sitting cross-legged on the piano stool so that he was facing Thomas.

"Is it?" Thomas's tone was expressionless through the smoke.

"You know it is," Jimmy rolled his eyes.

"What of it?" Thomas asked impassively, eyes flickering to hold Jimmy's for a moment. "I don't remember vowing to tell you all my worldly secrets the moment we became friends." There was the tiniest edge to his voice.

Jimmy rolled his eyes again. "Don't be an idiot."

Thomas just shrugged, expression unchanging— but he slid his box of cigarettes across the table towards Jimmy.

"Thanks," Jimmy said, taking one and lighting it, letting the smoke fill his lungs and spill out into the air around him. He'd never really smoked before he'd become friends with Thomas, and it still hurt his lungs a little if he inhaled too deeply.

For several moments, they just smoked in silence, the only noise the autumnal rain that still battered against the windows, lost in the darkness. Jimmy watched Thomas with interest as the other man carefully put the box of cigarettes back in his pocket and continued to smoke with ease. Jimmy couldn't help but think jokingly that Thomas was as intangible as the smoke that clouded the air between them.

"What else did she play?" Jimmy ventured after several moments.

"What's it to you?" Thomas asked evenly, raising his eyebrows slightly at Jimmy's question.

Jimmy sighed, waving his cigarette impatiently. "Don't you think it's a little peculiar that we've been friends for months and I don't know the first thing about you?"

"I don't know the first thing about you, either," Thomas countered, tapping his cigarette over the ash tray. "Not really."

"You never asked," Jimmy shrugged, taking a drag of his cigarette and feeling the slight burn of the smoke in his lungs.

"I'm asking now," Thomas said quietly, eyes impassive in the dim light.

"Well, if I answer your questions, you have to answer mine," Jimmy said, determined to figure Thomas out, even just a little— even if only to stop himself mulling it over all the time.

"Are you sure you want to do that?" Thomas asked softly, raising an eyebrow.

"Of course. Why wouldn't I?" Jimmy frowned, flicking ash in the direction of the ash tray on the table between them.

"Well, let's just say that I find the less people know about me, the more likely they are to like me," Thomas said coolly, expression impassive. He took a final drag of his cigarette and stubbed it out, blowing smoke slowly up into the shadows.

"That's ridiculous!" Jimmy exclaimed, choking slightly.

"Is it?" Thomas asked calmly, eyes glittering in the lamplight of the servants' hall.

"Yes!" Jimmy said insistently.

Thomas just raised his eyebrows sceptically.

"What, are you scared, Mr. Barrow?" Jimmy found himself challenging.

"Definitely not," Thomas replied, eyes catching Jimmy's in a way that suddenly made Jimmy feel as though he was under a spotlight. It was ironic; Thomas might have pointed out he knew nothing about Jimmy, but Jimmy often felt as though Thomas could know everything about him— including the things he did not know himself— with just one look. He just wished he could do the same with Thomas, but Thomas was utterly unreadable.

"Are you?" Thomas' smooth voice startled Jimmy from his thoughts, making him choke slightly on his inhale. Thomas was looking at him questioningly, the smallest hint of amusement colouring his tone.

"Of course I'm not!" Jimmy retorted indignantly. "Why on earth would I be scared? Ask me whatever you wish, Mr. Barrow," he said defiantly, ignoring the way his heart was nudging at his ribs.

Thomas said nothing, just raised his eyebrows ever so slightly.

"Right, I've got a bet for you," Jimmy announced triumphantly, finishing his cigarette. "For the next twenty days, we each have to answer one question the other asks— the first one to back out owes the other a month's supply of cigarettes." He didn't care whether he had to answer Thomas' questions in the process— he was determined to satisfy his curiosity about the other man by whatever means he could.

For a moment, Thomas considered him, grey eyes utterly unreadable in the dim light and the remnants of the smoke that curled around them. Then—

"Deal."

The following day was particularly busy in preparation for a visit from Lord Gillingham, and consequently Jimmy barely saw Thomas until dinner, which he found endlessly frustrating. He'd awoken with an underlying excitement that had made him restless and fidgety all day with impatience— the same kind of eager, jittery feeling he used to get before Christmas when he was young. It was the feeling of waiting for something he'd been anticipating for ages; Jimmy had been trying to figure Thomas out for weeks and now that he finally had the opportunity, a few extra hours felt like eternity. Every time he caught sight of Thomas in the kitchen or in the upstairs hall he'd want to go and ask him questions, but it was impossible in the bustle of preparations.

Dinner dragged on hopelessly; Mr. Carson was criticising Alfred and Jimmy's work on the second floor gallery for the majority of the meal, so Jimmy didn't even get the chance to look at Thomas— he just kept his eyes on his Sheppard's pie and tried to let Mr. Carson's voice wash over him.

By the time Mr. Carson switched to discussing the wine list for the following evening with Mrs. Hughes, dinner was almost over, and Jimmy looked up eagerly from the remnants of his pie to see Thomas slipping out into the yard, cigarettes in his uninjured hand.

"May I be excused to get a little fresh air?" Jimmy directed the question to Mrs. Hughes, knowing she was more likely to agree.

"Yes, yes," Mrs. Hughes said distractedly, barely looking up from the wine list. "Don't be long, though, there's plenty more to be done before the evening's over."

With the sense of excitement curling in the pit of his stomach, Jimmy grabbed his glass from the table and made his way through the kitchen and out into the yard after Thomas.

Jimmy shivered as he stepped out into the dusk, wrapping his jacket more closely round himself as he approached Thomas. The night air was sharp and cold in comparison to the steamy heat of the kitchen, and the stars were out in the loneliness of the sky, cold and remote. Thomas was standing a little way across the yard, leaning against the wall and smoking silently, staring up at them.

"When did you start smoking?"

Thomas looked around in surprise, eyes illuminatingly grey in the dusk. Jimmy distantly thought that they reminded him of snow; fragile, fleeting, untouchable. He had loved the snow when he was little— until he held it in his hands and it melted and made Jimmy cry because it made him realise nothing was as he thought it was.

Still shivering slightly, Jimmy crossed the remaining few feet between himself and Thomas and came to a halt just in front of the other man, tasting smoke in the icy air.

"That's your question," Thomas stated in disbelief, frowning at Jimmy.

"The first one, yes," Jimmy replied, casually taking the cigarette from Thomas' long fingers and shivering at their surprising warmth. "Go on then," he mumbled around the cigarette, taking a drag and handing it back to Thomas. "Answer it."

Thomas shook his head slightly in a bemused manner. "As you like. I started smoking around ten years ago."

Jimmy watched him take a brief drag of the cigarette he'd put his own lips to moments before and exhale into the cold night air, the muscles under the pale skin of his throat contracting and relaxing.

"And I thought you were going to ask me something horrendous," Thomas remarked, lips quirking slightly as he fixed Jimmy with a subtly amused look.

"Ten years?" Jimmy repeated questioningly, watching the smoke seep from between Thomas' lips and vaporise as the ice of the air crushed it. He was still cold, he realised— his hands as numb as they had been all those years ago when they'd melted the snow.

Thomas threw the cigarette to the cobbled floor and ground it under his heel. "That's what I said."

"When you started working at Downton," Jimmy stated, studying Thomas with interest.

"Around that time, yes," Thomas said impassively. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to attend to his Lordship."

"What about my question?" Jimmy demanded as Thomas crossed the yard briskly.

Thomas paused in the doorway of the kitchen, shadowed by the yellow light that spilled out of it into the night.

"Be patient. I'm working on it," he replied, amusement lacing his words as he ducked back inside, leaving Jimmy standing out in the sharp October dusk with the smoke from Thomas' cigarette still clinging to his lungs.

It was well after midnight and Jimmy was re-reading yesterday's paper in the dim lighting of the servants' hall when he dimly registered the familiar heady scent of cologne and smoke and looked up to see that Thomas had slipped into the seat beside him.

"Here," Thomas said, offering Jimmy a steaming mug of cocoa before taking a sip of his own and leaning back in his chair, pushing a hand through his inky black hair.

"Thanks," Jimmy said gratefully, setting down the newspaper and taking a gulp of the steaming drink. "I'm bloody shattered."

"Go to bed, then," Thomas said, stifling a yawn. Thomas late at night was as closer to the glimmers Jimmy occasionally got whenever Thomas was caught off guard— it was as though by this point, the day had gradually worn off the sharp corners of his manner. He looked softened, somehow— just subtly. Maybe it was because his livery was slightly creased from working all day or his hair was no longer so neatly slicked back, or maybe it was because it tended to just be the two of them left up when it was this late and out of everyone, Thomas seemed most at ease with Jimmy.

"No, I want to hear your question first," Jimmy mumbled, setting down the mug and rubbing his eyes tiredly.

"Okay." Thomas paused, taking a sip of cocoa from his own mug and looking at Jimmy with a typically impassive expression that both frustrated and fascinated him. "Why don't you even give Ivy the time of day?"

Jimmy blinked in surprise. "Ivy?"

"That's what I said," Thomas said, taking another sip. Jimmy watched him swallow and set the mug down on the tabletop, though his long fingers stayed curled round the handle. "She's gorgeous, she's funny, she'd do anything you wanted, and you know it."

Jimmy struggled for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts. "I don't know… She just doesn't interest me."

"That's not a very interesting answer," Thomas remarked.

"Well, I'm not a very interesting person," Jimmy countered, feeling vaguely annoyed for reasons he couldn't quite place.

"I don't know about that," Thomas said, and the tone of his voice had softened slightly. Jimmy looked up, but Thomas had drained the last of his cocoa and was standing up abruptly. "Well, I'm going to bed. Tomorrow's going to be a busy day and I'll need a few hours decent sleep to be able to deal with Mr. Carson. Night Jimmy."

"Wait up, I'm coming too," Jimmy sighed, pushing himself to his feet and following Thomas out of the servants' hall and up that stairs, trying without success to shift the uneasy feeling of confusion. He distractedly wished Thomas goodnight when they reached the landing and went to his room, closing the door softly behind him. He could distantly hear Thomas doing the same across the hall, and frowned, slumping down at his vanity and staring at himself in the looking glass.

His blonde hair was vaguely tousled and his eyes weighed down with dark circles, and he found Thomas' question echoing in his head as he stared at himself. Why wasn't he interested in Ivy? He'd never thought about it before, but now that he did, it suddenly bothered him immensely. She was the type of girl Jimmy would have gone for in a heartbeat before he'd come to Downton, but now he found he genuinely didn't care. She just wasn't interesting to him.

Suddenly, Jimmy felt as though he knew himself even less than he knew Thomas.

Shaking his head, he got up and splashed his face with water before stripping off his livery and pulling on his pyjamas, trying to shift the unsettled feeling that made him frown at his reflection as though it was someone else. With a heavy sigh, he sunk down on the edge of his bed, forcing himself to push his unease to the back of his mind and instead consoled himself with the prospect of thinking up his next question for Thomas. He couldn't help but feel the return of the jittery excitement that he'd woken up with that morning at the thought of beginning to understand even the tiniest little thing about Thomas, and it was with a smile that he blew out the candle on his bedside table, letting it go dark all around him.


	2. Chapter 2

Jimmy slept badly. The sound of rain battering against the windowpane had kept him tossing and turning restlessly all night, his brain full of half-formed questions and non-existent answers. Consequently, he'd overslept and only just managed to scramble down to breakfast on time, head aching dully with lack of sleep.

As he slid hastily into his seat at the busy breakfast table, he could feel Mr. Carson's disapproving glare on him, and wished he'd had the time to comb his hair more effectively. He knew he knew he looked awful; his golden hair was rumpled, his jacket askew, and his eyes were weighed down with a purple sleeplessness that was as bruising as the questions which had plagued him into the early hours of the morning.

"Sleep well, James?" Mr. Carson asked pointedly as Jimmy hurriedly helped himself to tea and toast.

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Carson," Jimmy lied, gulping his tea too quickly and scalding his tongue. He winced, setting the mug down and brushing his dishevelled hair out of his eyes. It was only then that he noticed Thomas' gaze on him. Thomas was sitting in the seat opposite, the morning newspaper spread out in front of him— but his eyes were on Jimmy. The moment Jimmy met his gaze, Thomas looked away as if he'd been burnt, the smallest tinge of colour on his cheekbones as he turned the page of the newspaper, his long, pale fingers fumbling slightly.

Jimmy had used to feel intensely uncomfortable and guilty whenever he caught Thomas looking at him, but now it was something subtly different— something that wasn't entirely unpleasant, even though it made his stomach twist. Part of it was that Jimmy liked knowing Thomas shared more of himself with Jimmy than anyone else; it made him feel more justified in wanting to understand the other man better. But the other part— Jimmy just didn't know. It was as confusing as Thomas himself.

"Stop daydreaming and finish your breakfast, James. You're late enough already." Mr. Carson's voice cut sharply through Jimmy's wandering thoughts, making the latter jump and hurriedly take another bite of toast, his eyes sliding back to watch Thomas reading his newspaper as he chewed. Thomas had seamlessly smoothed the hint of colour from his face and his expression was as carefully smooth and impassive as ever, not the slightest trace of emotion left on it. Jimmy suddenly realised that the only time he ever caught a glimpse of emotion on Thomas' face was when it concerned himself; out of everyone, he was the one closest to Thomas— and yet he still didn't really know him at all.

Jimmy still wasn't quite sure why it mattered so much to him to try and understand Thomas. Perhaps it was because Jimmy had always liked to think that he never needed to learn anything because he already knew it all— but when it came to Thomas, he could no longer ignore the fact that in actuality, Jimmy knew and understood painfully little of the world.

Before he'd met Thomas, Jimmy had found it endlessly easy to put people into boxes— but Thomas was different. Every time Jimmy thought he'd got him figured out so that he fitted in one place, Thomas would do or say something and Jimmy would be forced to realise that the other man was something else entirely. It was endlessly frustrating; Jimmy hadn't failed to understand something since he was a child, and he hated the helplessness of the feeling. It made him feel as though he was ten years old again and crying over the snow in his hands that no longer existed.

"James, are you listening to me?"

Jimmy jumped at Mr. Carson's irritated tone and dragged his gaze from Thomas, whose eyes were still on the newspaper in front of him.

"Sorry, Mr. Carson. My mind was elsewhere," Jimmy apologised guiltily, draining his cup of tea and standing up hurriedly.

"Yes, I could see that," Mr. Carson said sardonically. "Alfred is already upstairs. Go and join him— there's plenty to be done before Lord Gillingham arrives this evening, and I won't tolerate laziness. Or untidiness, for that matter. Make sure you've made yourself more presentable by the time our visitor arrives."

"Yes, Mr. Carson," Jimmy sighed, trying in vain to straighten his jacket and push his hair into some kind of order.

Across the table, Thomas folded up his newspaper and looked up briefly at Jimmy, eyebrows raised slightly.

Jimmy couldn't help but grin fleetingly at him before hurrying from the servants' hall, catching the smallest of smiles in return before Thomas' expression slipped back to its careful impassivity.

It was a feeling of great resignation that Jimmy ascended the stairs to find Alfred; he suddenly had the feeling that today would feel even more endless than the last one before he got the chance to talk to Thomas properly. He'd been hoping to after breakfast— but it looked as though once more, the questions would have to wait.

By the time luncheon was served, Jimmy was in a foul mood. His headache had been considerably worsened by working tirelessly since breakfast at the same time as trying to tolerate Alfred, and his lack of sleep was beginning to catch up with him. The only thing which had kept him from shouting at Alfred had been the prospect of talking to Thomas in the servants' hall over lunch— but when Jimmy flung himself moodily down at the table, the seat opposite him— Thomas' seat— was empty. Jimmy frowned, ignoring the plate of food in front of him, even though his stomach had been growling for the past several hours.

"Where's Mr. Barrow?" Jimmy addressed the table at large, but it was Mrs. Hughes who replied.

"He went into Ripon after breakfast on an errand for his Lordship," she said briskly, buttering her slice of bread. "He won't be back until late this afternoon."

Jimmy was acutely surprised at the disappointment that sunk like a stone in his stomach, and he dropped his gaze to his plate, no longer particularly hungry.

"Actually, James, that reminds me—" Mrs. Hughes took a sip of water and looked down at Jimmy from the head of the table. "Mr. Carson wanted a brief word with you in his office."

Hoping fervently that he wasn't about to get a telling off, Jimmy left his plate of untouched food and rose from the table, making his way along to Mr. Carson's office. He paused for a moment outside before knocking hesitantly on the door.

"Come in."

"You asked to see me, Mr. Carson?" Jimmy asked as politely as he could manage, poking his head around the door.

"Oh, yes— come in, James," Mr. Carson replied, putting down the silver he had been polishing and looking up. "Mrs. Hughes tells me that you and Alfred have finished with the entrance hall, so I would be much obliged if you could go down to Ripon this afternoon to run a couple of last minute errands. Lady Edith is taking the motor down shortly, so you should be able to get a lift with her if you wish."

"Certainly, Mr. Carson," Jimmy agreed, feeling his stomach leap hopefully at the possibility of catching Thomas in the village. It suddenly struck him how ironic the situation was; before they'd become friends and Jimmy had wanted nothing more than for Thomas leave him alone, the other man had seemed to be there constantly— and now that Jimmy wanted to speak to him, he had become irritatingly elusive.

"Well, thank you, James. I'll let Mrs. Hughes give you the details and I'll see you at dinner," Mr. Carson said briskly. He looked up at Jimmy with a slight frown. "Make sure you don't dawdle in the village— come straight back once you've finished the errands."

"Of course. Thank you, Mr. Carson." Jimmy bowed out of the office, unable to stop a grin from spreading across his face as he went to fetch his hat and coat.

Dusk was beginning fall in the village, icy and forlorn in contrast to the bittersweet vibrancy of the leaves and Jimmy was certain that he'd missed Thomas. He'd already lingered in the village longer than necessary in the hope that he'd run into him, and was now shivering with cold and in danger of being late back. Consequently, it was with a sinking feeling of disappointment that he trailed back in the direction of the house, past the churchyard, where he suddenly caught sight of a familiar figure, leaning against the wall and smoking silently. His stomach leapt hopefully and he hurried over, across the leaf-strewn street.

"Evening, Mr. Barrow," Jimmy grinned slightly breathlessly, stopping just in front of him. Thomas looked paler than ever in the dusk, shrouded in tendrils of smoke and the ugly shadows of the church.

"Jimmy," Thomas raised his eyebrows in greeting, looking mildly surprised. He paused, taking a long drag of his cigarette and blowing smoke out expertly into the cold air in front of him. "Shouldn't you be working?"

"I was sent into the village on some last minute errands after lunch. I'm just heading back now— d'you want to walk with me?" Jimmy asked hopefully, drawing his coat more closely around him against the icy October twilight.

"Is that your question for the day?" Thomas smirked, smoke curling from his mouth.

"Is that yours?" Jimmy countered, grinning.

Thomas rolled his eyes, smiling slightly. He threw his cigarette to the leaf-strewn ground and crushed it beneath his heel. Jimmy watched him as he exhaled the last of the smoke from his lungs and turned his gaze to Jimmy, elusive and icy grey in the dwindling light. "Come on, then."

"What?" Jimmy blinked.

"You just asked if I would walk back with you to the house," Thomas reminded him evenly, amusement colouring his tone slightly. "And no doubt to pester me with more questions."

"I'm not pestering you," Jimmy said indignantly. "But I do have a question."

"Out with it, then," Thomas raised his eyebrows.

"Let's walk for a bit first," Jimmy decided. "Come on."

"As you like," Thomas replied, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat as they walked slowly away from the church and started down the lane to Downton where amber leaves lit the stark trees like flames.

"So, I assume you survived the morning with Alfred?" Thomas asked conversationally after a few moments of walking in silence, their footsteps crushing the fallen leaves that scattered the lane. "You should have seen your face when Mr. Carson told you that you were to work with him."

"It was a close thing," Jimmy admitted with a wry grin. "I swear to god, a couple more hours and I'd have had to kill him."

"I doubt Mr. Carson would have taken kindly to that. Murder would be far too much scandal for the house," Thomas remarked lightly, making Jimmy laugh.

"God forbid anything that brings scandal on the house," Jimmy joked, shaking his head. "Even a teaspoon being out of place."

They fell into a companionable silence for a while, broken only by sound of the leaves splitting beneath their feet. The air was sharp and biting as they walked, and Jimmy was interested to see the tiniest bit of colour sting Thomas' pale cheeks, just as it had that morning over breakfast. It made the other man look less formal, more human somehow, with his jet black hair ruffled by the bitter breeze and his grey eyes sharp against the reds and oranges of the falling leaves; ice that cut through the flames.

"What else did your mother used to play on the piano?" Jimmy asked eventually, when Downton was a smudge on the horizon, and Thomas' cheeks were stung red with the cold.

Thomas looked at him in surprise, as if he hadn't expected Jimmy to remember their discussion several nights before. He hesitated for a moment, slowing slightly.

"Old folk-songs, mainly," he replied after a moment, gaze lost on the darkening horizon. "She used to sing, too."

"Did you ever learn?" Jimmy asked curiously. When he thought about it, he could easily picture Thomas' long, elegant fingers creating chords and melodies— but he supposed they were damaged, now. Thomas never took his glove off his left hand. Jimmy had touched it once; gently brushed it with his fingertips when Thomas reluctantly revealed what happened. He remembered how he'd never been sure whether Thomas had snatched his hand away because it hurt him or because Jimmy was touching him.

"Yes," Thomas replied impassively. "She taught me."

"Why don't you ever play now?" Jimmy frowned, shivering as a particularly sharp gust of wind stung his skin, unsettling the remaining leaves on their trees.

"It makes me sad," Thomas said simply, glancing at Jimmy with unreadable, startling eyes. They were so grey against the flames of the trees and the starkness of the dusk it was almost painful; they stole all the colours around them.

They walked in silence for several moments, footsteps rustling the fallen amber leaves which shrouded the path like burnt paper, wind whipping round them. Jimmy was surprised to realise that the vague presence of Thomas walking alongside him was inexplicably reassuring; he could feel the slight warmth of Thomas' body beside him and taste the heady smoke and cologne on the numbingly cold breeze, and it made him feel a sudden pang of affection for the other man.

"Why does it make you sad, Mr. Barrow?" Jimmy couldn't help himself from asking quietly, watching Thomas intently. Thomas stopped walking, black hair making his impassive expression almost shockingly pale in the dwindling October light. He almost smiled— his lips quirked slightly, but it didn't reach his eyes, which stayed as sad and grey as the kind of snow that falls in the dark where no one can see it.

"I thought the deal was that we had one question each day," he remarked coolly, raising an eyebrow. "Perhaps mathematics isn't your strong point, Jimmy, because I'm fairly certain I just answered three."

"You didn't answer them properly," Jimmy scowled, crossing his arms across his chest. "But fine. You can ask me an extra one if you like."

Thomas smiled slightly. "No thanks, I'll stick to the rules."

"That'll make a change," Jimmy quipped, watching Thomas' mouth quirk slightly in amusement. "Go on then. What's your question?"

Thomas didn't reply straight away, instead he pulled another cigarette from his pocket and lit it, hands clumsy with cold. Jimmy watched him, wondering vaguely what Thomas looked like without his hair slicked back, whether it would soften the sharpness of his features or only extenuate them through contrast. He wondered whether the smoke had stung Thomas' lungs when he'd first taken up the habit like it stung Jimmy's; whether he'd started the habit just to share someone's company the way Jimmy had. Jimmy never smoked alone.

"Why did you suggest this?" Thomas asked slowly, smoke curling from the words that made Jimmy come to a halt in the bitter dusk.

"Suggest what?" Jimmy asked uneasily, regarding Thomas in confusion.

"This whole asking questions business," Thomas clarified, watching Jimmy carefully. Jimmy could feel the smoke from Thomas' cigarette stinging at his lungs as it curled through the air between them.

"Why not?" Jimmy shrugged, evading the question. He deftly took the cigarette from Thomas' fingers. They were always surprisingly soft as well as warm; they should have been calloused from years of hardship the way Thomas was, but they were always smooth and pale. Jimmy took a long drag of the cigarette, trying not to choke on the smoke that burnt at his lungs and overwhelmed him. Thomas' eyes didn't leave him, bright from the bitterness of the wind.

"You can't answer questions with questions, Jimmy."

"Well, what if you don't know the answer to a question?" Jimmy demanded, all the smoke coming out of his lungs in a rush and clouding the air between him and Thomas. He handed the cigarette back abruptly, still feeling the warmth of it on his lips as he started walking again.

"I can't figure you out, Mr. Barrow," he mumbled as Thomas fell into step with him. "I'm trying, but I just can't."

"Do you need to?" Thomas asked evenly.

"Yes!" Jimmy exclaimed. "I hate not understanding."

"Well, get used to it," Thomas said quietly.

"I don't want to get used to it! I can't. If I can't understand something, it bothers me until I do. Normally it's easy to understand things—"

"Easy to understand things— or easy to pretend you do?" Thomas cut in, grey eyes slicing through Jimmy and making him shiver uncomfortably. He shook his head, exhaling heavily and watching it curl up into the air to mingle with the smoke of Thomas' cigarette.

"I just wanted to… I just wanted to try to understand you. Even if it's just the tiniest little bit," Jimmy said slowly, not looking at Thomas but instead watching the way the leaves beneath his feet cracked and split into amber fragments. "I don't know why I need to. But I just do."

Thomas didn't say anything as they continued to walk in silence towards Downton, but as they neared the house, he drew closer. Jimmy jumped at the light touch on his wrist, but Thomas was just silently offering him the last of his cigarette. His cheeks were stung red from the cold, his hair tangled by the wind, his eyes illuminated by the dusk, and Jimmy didn't think he'd ever seen Thomas look so human.

"Thanks," Jimmy mumbled gratefully, taking it and once again being surprised at the soft warmth of Thomas' long fingers. "How are your hands warm? It's bloody freezing."

"You know what they say," Thomas shrugged impassively. "Cold hands, warm heart— I'm sure it works the other way too."

Jimmy, smoking Thomas' cigarette as they crossed the drive, couldn't help thinking that nothing was less true— but he didn't say anything as they crossed the yard and returned to the bustle and noise of the kitchen which suddenly seemed like a different world.

Even though he was exhausted from lack of sleep the previous night and working all day, Jimmy didn't go up to bed until well past midnight. Even Thomas had departed before him, leaving Jimmy to mull over his thoughts and the piano. As he played fragments of song, he kept seeing Thomas' fingers dancing over the keys instead of his own. When had Thomas stopped playing? Was it after he injured his hand? Or was it when he came to Downton when he took up smoking?

Jimmy only had a few more fragments of Thomas than he had a couple of days ago, but somehow the more pieces he had seemed to make the overall picture even more blurred than it had been when he'd known nothing. Everything he'd found out just led to further questions, and Jimmy felt as though he hadn't really understood anything more about Thomas at all— it was as if asking the questions only made him realise how little he truly knew the other man— and how much he wanted to.

He couldn't stop hearing Thomas' careless remark about cold hands and warm hearts, and was poignantly reminded of how Thomas had never, ever resented him or been cruel to him— even although Jimmy had tried to ruin him. Thomas might come across as cold and sarcastic most of the time, but Jimmy felt certain that he wasn't that way at all. Maybe it was just easier for him to be that way, like it was easier for Jimmy to kid himself he understood everything because the alternative was too scary to face.

"Jimmy."

Jimmy jumped wildly, fingers clashing on the notes as he whirled around in surprise. Thomas himself was standing in the doorway of the servants' hall, hair ruffled.

"Bloody hell, Mr. Barrow," Jimmy recovered himself slightly, raking a hand through his hair and letting out a breath. "You didn't half scare me."

"Go to sleep, Jimmy," Thomas said quietly. "As much as I enjoy your piano playing, I highly doubt that Mr. Carson will at one o'clock in the morning. And you look dead on your feet."

"I was thinking," Jimmy said honestly, rubbing his aching eyes.

"A highly dangerous occupation," Thomas remarked coolly, raising an eyebrow.

"Don't I know it," Jimmy replied ruefully, getting up wearily and picking up the lamp from the table. "You're right, I do need to sleep. How come you're still awake?" he asked curiously as he followed Thomas out into the hallway.

"Someone was playing the piano," Thomas said evenly as they ascended the stairs. "Quite beautifully— but loudly, nonetheless."

"Why did you really stop playing, Mr. Barrow?" Jimmy persisted as they reached the landing of the men's quarters. Thomas stopped outside his door, facing Jimmy, his face hollowed out by the dim yellow light of the lamp Jimmy was holding. The soft light made his eyes look more vivid than ever, poignant and grey.

"Sleep, Jimmy," Thomas said, and his tone was almost gentle. He regarded Jimmy for a moment in the flickering lamplight, and then quietly went into his room, closing the door behind him softly and leaving Jimmy standing out alone in the darkness of the hall with unanswered questions swirling round him once more.

It took him several moments to realise that Thomas had called his piano playing beautiful— and several more to realise that he was smiling in the darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

The following day was so busy that, much to his disappointment, Jimmy barely even glimpsed Thomas through the flurry of activity until they were both due to serve dinner.

Thomas had been as immaculate and impassive as ever each time Jimmy had caught sight of him throughout the day, but as he passed Jimmy on the stairs down to the kitchen in a rush of smoke and cologne, he smiled fleetingly. It was the smallest of smiles, barely a flicker of the mouth, but was genuine and coloured the grey of his eyes for a moment. Thomas smiled so rarely that whenever he did, Jimmy felt as though he was being rewarded, and he couldn't but help grinning back before he hurried back upstairs to finish laying the table.

Despite having been working tirelessly since seven that morning on very few hours sleep, Jimmy had spent the day feeling inexplicably cheerful. The knowledge that Thomas allowed Jimmy to know more of him than anyone else made Jimmy feel almost triumphant— and desperately eager to continue discovering more. The need to understand had become almost obsessive; it was all Jimmy could think about.

Wherever he was, whatever he was doing, he kept thinking of all the questions he wanted to ask Thomas— and ever since Thomas had left him standing in the darkened hallway the night before, something had made Jimmy determined to get the other man to play the piano again. He wasn't entirely sure why; perhaps it was because he wanted to catch a glimmer of the person Thomas used to be, or perhaps it was because whenever Jimmy played the piano, it was the happiest Thomas ever seemed to look. Or maybe it was just because it would be an excuse to spend more time with him; Jimmy tried not to think too much about how was happier when he was with Thomas than anywhere else. He was sure it was just because he was curious about the other man— once he understood him, everything would go back to normal.

However, the day was so busy that Jimmy barely had time to consider Thomas and questions about the piano further; it wasn't until minutes before the main course was served that he spoke to Thomas while they both prepared their serving trays in the steamy bustle of the kitchen.

"I've got a question for you," Thomas announced calmly, expertly balancing two dishes and a jug of gravy.

Jimmy looked up eagerly, almost burning himself on the dish Mrs. Patmore had just handed him.

"Not now, you idiot. In case you hadn't noticed, we're in the middle of serving rather an important dinner— I'm sure Mr. Carson would be just thrilled if we decided to stop for a chat," Thomas said sarcastically. He picked up his tray and led the way out of the bustle of the kitchen. "Do you have to do anything more after you've finished serving the dinner?"

"I've got to help Alfred with the luggage and serve the after dinner wine while they're all in the sitting room, but after that, I'm all yours," Jimmy grinned, pausing as Thomas allowed him to go first up the stairs.

Something in Thomas' expression flickered slightly, and he remained silent as they ascended the stairs and went towards the dining room. Jimmy frowned, suddenly feeling guilty as he replayed his words in his head. It was so easy to be around Thomas that Jimmy sometimes forgot Thomas' feelings for him, and consequently said things that in retrospect seemed so thoughtless and insensitive and made Jimmy feel awful. Maybe it wasn't so much that he forgot Thomas' feelings for him— it was hard to when they were in every look that Thomas gave him— but more that it just wasn't uncomfortable. Jimmy didn't really know why it didn't make him feel uncomfortable anymore; he supposed he had just become used to it.

All the same, every so often he became painfully aware that he'd said something without even thinking which hurt Thomas. Thomas never let on that this was the case, but he didn't need to— Jimmy could see it the second he made whatever careless comment it was that time, and wished intently that he had the ability to erase words that had already left his mouth. He often wondered why Thomas didn't just ignore him— wouldn't it be less painful than being friends with him? Jimmy was grateful that Thomas was friends with him, though. In all honesty, he'd never had such a good friend as Thomas before in his life; maybe that was why it bothered him so much how little he knew about the other man.

Jimmy had learnt that the best thing to do in the cases when he'd said too much— when the awkwardness hung between them so thickly it was almost tangible— was to just pretend it hadn't happened and change the subject. So consequently, when there was a slight lull in activity while they were both collecting the desserts from the kitchen, Jimmy set his tray down right next to Thomas purposefully.

"Mr. Barrow," he said cheerfully, watching Thomas expertly fit the various different dishes onto his serving tray. "I've decided; I'm going to get you to play the piano again."

Thomas looked up, expression quizzical. "I'm sorry?"

"I've been thinking about it all day," Jimmy said honestly, piling dishes of strawberries and raspberries onto his serving tray.

"Do I have any say in this?" Thomas asked, expression as impassive as ever, but the smallest hint of amusement laced his tone, and Jimmy knew he was forgiven.

"No," Jimmy replied cheerfully, adding the cream to his tray and leading the way out of the kitchen. "Sorry."

"Well, we'll have to see about that." Jimmy couldn't see Thomas' expression because he was walking behind him, but it sounded as though he was smiling slightly, and Jimmy grinned triumphantly.

"You should know, Mr. Barrow," he said seriously, holding the door open for Thomas. "I always get what I want."

"Well, I envy you that," Thomas replied, smiling slightly as he paused, waiting for Jimmy as they crossed the entrance hall towards the dining room.

"Anyone can get what they want," Jimmy shrugged, glancing at Thomas' seamless profile. "They just have to be persistent enough."

"Not the answer in every case, I'm afraid," Thomas said quietly.

"Of course it is," Jimmy insisted as they paused for a second outside the dining room.

"Is it?" Thomas asked, eyes catching on Jimmy's for a second before he went in, leaving Jimmy standing in the doorway, suddenly feeling utterly awful.

Jimmy spent the remainder of the evening feeling angry with himself, and time seemed to pass painfully slowly before he was able to go and speak to Thomas. By the time he finally finished working, he was thoroughly frustrated and had managed to obtain a deep gash on the palm of his hand from clumsily clearing up a broken glass too hastily. It was still bleeding and throbbing painfully when Jimmy eventually made it down to the servants' hall just after eleven, cursing. Anna was the only one there besides Thomas, who sitting by the fire, staring into the flickering depths of the flames and smoking silently.

He looked more like a closed book than ever— but his pages were in danger of being burnt by the fire. Jimmy paused uncertainly for a moment, watching the way the flames were reflected in Thomas' grey eyes and the way the smoke from his cigarette unfurled enigmatically around his sharp features, masking their sadness with ambiguity.

"Evening, Mr. Barrow," Jimmy offered tentatively, feeling slightly hesitant as he drew up a chair beside Thomas and sat down tensely. He could feel the glowing warmth of the fire making his cheeks heat up already.

Thomas looked up, smoke curling around his expression. He opened his mouth as if to say something in response, but then frowned suddenly, eyes catching on Jimmy's clumsily bandaged hand.

"What happened to your hand?" he asked, concern suddenly etched across his usually impassive features. He put his cigarette down in the ash tray, turning to face Jimmy properly.

"It's nothing, I'm fine," Jimmy waved him off dismissively, intensely grateful that Thomas seemed not to be troubled by his careless remarks from earlier in the evening. "Bloody Alfred dropped a glass and I had to clear it up— only I didn't manage it too well, as you can see."

"Let me take a look at it," Thomas offered, concern still heavy in his gaze. He stubbed out his cigarette even though he had not finished, leaving it smoking faintly in the ash tray.

"I'm fine— really, Mr. Barrow," Jimmy insisted.

"You seem to be forgetting that I'm the one here with a medical qualification," Thomas reminded him evenly, but the concern still coloured his eyes. "Let me be the judge of whether its fine or not."

Jimmy winced slightly as he reluctantly held out his hand, letting Thomas hesitantly turn it over in his own hands. His fingers were faintly warm as Jimmy remembered, but surprisingly cool considering he'd been sitting by the fire, and as he carefully unwrapped the cloth that Jimmy had hastily bundled the wound in before continuing to serve the wine, he could feel the subtly hardened skin where Thomas held his cigarettes.

"How did you manage to continue serving like this?" Thomas asked, his tone as measured and careful as ever, but he spoke more quietly than usual, still holding Jimmy's hand in his warm ones as his thumb softly traced round the wound. "It'll need cleaned. Hold on a moment, I'll go and get you a proper bandage and some warm water."

"I'm fine, honestly, Mr. Barrow—" Jimmy protested feebly, but Thomas was already getting to his feet. With a sigh, Jimmy leant back in his chair, gazing into the fire. It always made him feel guilty when Thomas was so nice to him, because he felt as though he had nothing to give in return.

It was ironic; at the beginning of their shaky friendship, Jimmy had arrogantly thought that he didn't need to give Thomas anything but his presence, but he had increasingly come to realise that Thomas gave him so much it made him feel as though he himself was empty— and yet he still didn't really know anything tangible about the other man. He didn't know where he was born or what his parents were like, but he knew the way Thomas liked to smoke in the dusk where the smoke from his cigarette melted into the sky; he didn't know who Thomas' friends had been when he was young, but he knew the way that Thomas always smiled without realising it when Jimmy played the piano; he didn't know how Thomas had spent a single moment of his life before he came to Downton, but he knew which sections of the newspaper Thomas liked to read first at breakfast.

It had started off with Thomas constantly trying to prove himself to Jimmy— and now it seemed to Jimmy as though it was the other way round. He was constantly trying to impress a man he didn't even know, and it bothered him more than he liked to admit to himself. At least if he knew what a brilliant person Thomas was, he could justify it. But he only knew half-fragments about Thomas' life, and he couldn't justify it at all.

"Here we are," Thomas' voice startled Jimmy from his thoughts and he looked up to see Thomas setting a bowl of warm water and some bandages on the table. He pulled off his jacket and hung it over the back of his chair before sitting down, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt and exposing the pale skin of his forearms. Jimmy was surprised at how smooth and unmarked they were; how they were almost translucent so that he could see the traces of blue veins and Thomas' pulse fluttering beneath the seamless surface. It made the other man seem suddenly much more real.

"This might sting a little," Thomas warned, dipping a piece of cotton wool into the warm water. He hesitated for a moment before taking Jimmy's hand again. Jimmy felt his skin tingle slightly at the feel of Thomas' fingers curling round his wrist, holding his hand firmly in place. Thomas' expression was strained, as though being so close to Jimmy was painful. It was carefully masked— probably no one besides Jimmy would have noticed; the hand holding Jimmy's was warm and steady, but Jimmy could see Thomas' long fingers trembling slightly as they carefully dabbed blood away from the wound, and felt a sudden inexplicable pang of affection for the other man.

"Thanks," he said quietly, eyes on Thomas' expression. He was frowning slightly in concentration, a couple of strands of inky black hair falling into his eyes as he cleaned the wound with intense care. "Do you miss it?"

"Miss what?" Thomas asked, not looking up but continuing to dab gently at the drying blood around the wound with long, careful fingers.

"Looking after people," Jimmy murmured. "The way you did during the war. And just so you know, this isn't my official question for the day— so I suppose you don't have to answer it if you don't want to."

The smallest of smiles pulled at Thomas' mouth. "Not your official question?"

"No. I haven't decided on that yet," Jimmy admitted. "Too many to choose from."

"Is there really that much you want to know about me?" Thomas asked, sounding surprised. "I'm really not very interesting, you know."

"I disagree," Jimmy said stubbornly, wincing as Thomas carefully started cleaning the wound itself with warm water from the bowl.

Despite the slight stinging of the cut, there was something inexplicably soothing about having it cleaned; Jimmy felt lulled by the warm, gentle pressure of Thomas' warm hand round his and the warmth of the fire, mingling with the subtle hint of smoke Jimmy could almost taste on Thomas' breath between them.

"In answer to your unofficial question; no, I don't miss it," Thomas said quietly after several moments, looking up as he discarded the piece of cotton wool he'd been using and dipping a fresh bit into the bowl of warm water. His expression was uncharacteristically unguarded, making Jimmy blink, suddenly feeling too close.

"Why— why not?" he stammered, not dropping his gaze from Thomas' intently grey one. He felt all-too aware of Thomas' hand still holding his.

"I'm not good at helping people. I never have been— and I went into it for the wrong reasons," Thomas replied evenly, looking away as he began to dab at the wound again.

Jimmy didn't say anything, but he couldn't help thinking how wrong Thomas was. Without even knowing it— Jimmy himself hadn't even known it for a long time— he'd helped Jimmy more than the latter could put into words. Before he'd formed his tentative friendship with Thomas, Jimmy had been vain and uninterested in anyone but himself and his own selfish feelings— but becoming friends with Thomas had allowed him to realise how truly valuable other people were. Jimmy had a suspicion that Thomas was still helping him in ways he didn't yet understand.

"Ouch," Jimmy winced, pain burning at his palm as Thomas dabbed at the deepest part of the cut.

"Sorry," Thomas murmured, dabbing around it more softly, his jet black hair falling across his face as he frowned in concentration.

They fell into an easy silence as Thomas continued to clean the cut, soaking the cotton wool in the warm water before applying it to the wound. Jimmy was surprised at how aware he was of Thomas' fingers holding his hand steady; how he could almost feel the elevated pulse under the pale skin of Thomas' wrist, how the warmth of Thomas' skin somehow got mixed in with the warmth of Jimmy's skin until he wasn't sure who it belonged to anymore. He could feel the slight roughness on Thomas' index finger from all the cigarettes he smoked, taste the same hint of smoke on the air between them from Thomas' breath, and wondered distantly whether the skin there would taste softly smoky too.

Jimmy winced again, suddenly feeling far too caught up, far too absorbed— it was suddenly as if the warm silence around them was choking him.

"You said you had a question for me," he blurted out, looking away from the warm pressure of Thomas' pale fingers curled around his and letting his gaze fall to the flames licking at the grate of the fire. He could feel the heat of it creeping up his cheeks and swallowed, trying to ignore the tingling sensation where Thomas' skin touched his.

"I do." Thomas' voice was quiet and measured. He discarded the piece of cotton wool he'd been using and dipped another bit into the warm water before continuing. Jimmy noted that he barely noticed the stinging at all now— the feel of Thomas' touch was much stronger.

"Go on, then," Jimmy said, his voice sounding oddly weak to his own ears.

Thomas was quiet for a moment, his expression one of intense concentration. Jimmy couldn't miss the simple tenderness with which the other man cleaned the wound on his palm, and he swallowed uncomfortably, heart thudding guiltily in his chest as he watched. All the same, Jimmy couldn't quite tear his gaze away from Thomas; it was strange seeing such a tender expression on his usually impassive face. It was an expression Jimmy had never seen on him before because he hadn't allowed Jimmy to see. But he was allowing him to now. The thought made Jimmy feel strangely privileged.

"I was wondering what you wanted to be when you grew up," Thomas said calmly after a moment, gently wiping away the remaining traces of blood. "When you were little, what you imagined yourself being."

Jimmy blinked, taken aback. "Well, I certainly didn't imagine myself being a footman," he said honestly, and the smallest of smiles pulled at Thomas' mouth, though he didn't avert his eyes from what he was doing.

"What did you imagine yourself being?"

"When I was about seven, I was determined I was going to be a prince," Jimmy grinned.

Thomas laughed, the smile splitting across his features as he looked up. Jimmy suddenly realised how rarely Thomas laughed, and he was struck by how human it made him look. His icy grey eyes had melted and crinkled round the edges, a million miles away from the closed-up, careful expression Thomas usually maintained. Sitting there with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, his inky black hair falling out of place, laughing, his hands round Jimmy's, Thomas looked so utterly unguarded and unrestrained— and Jimmy didn't expect it to hit him quite so hard how lovely it was.

"What's so funny?" Jimmy glared at Thomas, who had stopped laughing, but was still smiling as he continued to clean Jimmy's cut.

"Nothing, nothing," Thomas replied, shaking his head, the smile still playing across his lips. "I just don't know why I'm surprised."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Jimmy frowned indignantly.

"Nothing at all," Thomas insisted, dipping the last bit of cotton wool in the bowl of warm water and tentatively applying it to Jimmy's wound. "Now, do I get an 'unofficial question' too?"

"I suppose," Jimmy conceded, still frowning slightly at Thomas. "If it's a nice one."

"Why are you so determined to get me to play the piano?" Thomas asked carefully, glancing up fleetingly at Jimmy, eyes startlingly grey against the pallor of his face and the dim glow of the firelight around them.

Jimmy considered the question for a moment, concentrating on the slight tingling of the skin on his hand. He couldn't quite tell whether it was because of the warm water in his cut or because of Thomas' touch.

"Because," he said slowly, eyes on Thomas' uncharacteristically tender expression as he wiped the wound clean, holding Jimmy's hand as though it was something fragile or precious. "For it to make you sad, it must have been something that once made you happy."

Thomas looked up, expression unreadable despite how close Jimmy was to him. Even with the warmth of the fire, he was as pale as ever— though his eyes were glittering, their pupils blown as though the blackness was trying to eclipse the grey, and his lips were red, as though he bit them to try and keep the words in. With a pang of sadness, Jimmy fleetingly wondered how much Thomas didn't say but wished he could.

For a several moments, Thomas held his gaze in the glimmering glow of the firelight, the black of his pupils more vivid than ever against the remaining slivers of grey. Jimmy could feel the pulse in Thomas' wrist fluttering irregularly where he held onto Jimmy's hand, and could almost taste the smoke on the uneven breaths between them— then suddenly a slight pink tinge appeared on Thomas' cheeks as though he realised he'd been looking at Jimmy for too long, and he dropped his gaze as though he'd been burnt, returning hurriedly to the ministrations on the cut.

Jimmy watched him for a moment, feeling his heart beating unevenly in his chest for reasons he could not fathom, and the heat of the fire was suddenly headier than before, forcing Jimmy to stall Thomas as he took off his own jacket and rolled up the sleeves, exposing skin that looked so tanned and golden in comparison to Thomas', making the latter's look paler than ever where his fingers curled around Jimmy's wrist, holding his hand still.

"So, do you have a question for me?" Thomas' quiet voice startled Jimmy from his thoughts, his cheeks suddenly feeling warm from the heat of the fire.

He hesitated for a moment, watching the firelight reflected in Thomas' grey eyes. Thomas just looked so tender, so unguarded, sitting there with Jimmy's hand in his. Jimmy wasn't quite sure what made him ask it.

"Why did you do it? That day at the fair— weren't you scared?"

He hadn't meant to ask it, but he had— and it was too late to take it back. The question hung heavily in the air around them, all the lulled warmth of the fire suddenly crushed and airless.

"You know perfectly well why I did it," Thomas replied so quietly it was almost a whisper, dropping Jimmy's hand. He swallowed. "It's cheating to ask questions you already know the answer to."

"But I don't know the answer," Jimmy protested, shifting uncomfortably.

"How many times do you need me to tell you I'm in love with you?" Thomas asked quietly, looking away. Jimmy watched the way the muscles in his jaw clenched, as though he was trying to pull back the words that were already in the air around them— or as if he wished they weren't the truth.

"Mr. Barrow, I didn't—"

"Was it not clear enough for you the first time? Do you just like to hear it because it makes you feel good about yourself? Or perhaps it amuses you?" Thomas' expression was more rigidly impassive than ever, all the warmth vanished.

"No, it's not that," Jimmy stammered, feeling his cheeks burning. "I just don't understand why you did it… That the day of the fair— weren't you scared?"

"Of course I was," Thomas frowned, glancing up at Jimmy in confusion.

"Then why…?" Jimmy trailed off, biting his lip. He knew he'd said too much, crossed the fragile line of their friendship more than enough.

"Because you matter more than however scared I was. And in any case, being in love is like being scared— the best kind of scared. I was already terrified, what difference would it have made?"

Jimmy stared at Thomas; the way pink tinge on his cheekbones made the grey of his eyes stand out more vividly than ever against the inky black of his hair. The flames of the fire beside them were reflected in their irises, making it look as though they were melting the ice.

"Aren't you going to finish my bandage?" Jimmy asked quietly after several moments of silence which were broken only by the crackle and hiss of the flames that changed what they were burning out of all recognition; destroying them, but somehow making them beautiful in the process.

Thomas' expression was surprised as he looked back up, but he masked it quickly and nodded wordlessly, tentatively taking Jimmy's hand once more and softly dabbing it dry.

"I don't think I've ever been scared," Jimmy murmured, staring at Thomas' fingers curled tenderly round his. It suddenly struck him how ironic it was to be saying such a thing while his heart was thudding in his chest. "Not really."

"Lucky you," Thomas said so quietly it was almost inaudible over the hiss of the flames in the fireplace, and Jimmy didn't know what to say to that, so he just sat back and let Thomas wind the bandage carefully round the wound on his palm with the same fingers that smoked all those cigarettes with Jimmy every day and had once learnt to play the piano and had been shattered in the war.

They were so soft against Jimmy's hand that it almost felt as though they weren't there— but Jimmy knew they were, because when Thomas finished the bandage and let go, the spaces where his hand had been felt unexpectedly and poignantly cold.


	4. Chapter 4

The following morning dawned bitterly cold and unforgivingly grey, with frost that clung in icy crystals to the windowpanes. Jimmy was already lying awake when his alarm went off at six o'clock; he'd slept badly again, head muddled with half-conscious questions and answers that felt as though they were on the tip of his tongue. The cut on the palm of his hand was still throbbing dully, and with each pang of pain, Jimmy was reminded of the feeling of Thomas' fingers curled carefully round his wrist, softer than they should have been.

Head aching from lack of sleep, Jimmy blearily turned his alarm off and got out of bed, feeling the icy morning air stinging his exposed skin.

He couldn't help feeling inexplicably and uncharacteristically nervous as he washed and dressed hurriedly in his livery, still tugging on his jacket as he hurried down the hall to breakfast. Perhaps it was down to lack of sleep, or maybe it was because he was worried he'd finally stepped too far across the fragile line of his and Thomas' friendship and damaged it irreparably. He couldn't never really tell what Thomas was feeling or thinking; he was utterly inscrutable at the worst of times, and while it was what made Jimmy endlessly curious about the other man, it was also distinctly disconcerting at times such as this.

Jimmy just couldn't help feeling a line of some kind had been crossed last night as they sat in front of the fire and Thomas bandaged his hand and told him about fear— but he wasn't sure exactly what line it was, and that made him more nervous than anything. There just seemed to be more and more questions whose answers were either troublingly absent or simply raised further questions, and Jimmy was beginning to feel as though he was floundering in the helpless feeling of not understanding something.

"Good morning, Jimmy," Ivy smiled prettily at him as he entered the servants' hall, straightening his jacket and trying to compose himself slightly so it was not clear he'd spent half the night awake again.

"Morning," Jimmy replied distractedly as he sat down in his usual seat, eyes seeking out Thomas. His heart sank as he quickly realised that Thomas wasn't yet in the servants' hall, and it was with a heavy feeling in the bottom of his stomach that he helped himself to a slice of toast and gulped at his cup of tea.

"James—" Mr Carson raised his voice over the bustle of breakfast "— the gallery on the top floor needs cleaning, and seeing as that part of the house will be unoccupied today, I thought it would be an advisable time to begin. Considering that it's Alfred's day off, Mr. Barrow will be joining you."

Jimmy nodded wordlessly, trying to quell the nerves that suddenly writhed again in his stomach. He hastily took another gulp of tea in attempt to distract himself without much success.

Moments later, Ivy sat down in the seat beside him and started up a conversation about dancing, which Jimmy gratefully participated in without really paying much attention to what was being said.

He was just finishing his slice of toast when he caught sight of a familiar figure out of the corner of his eye, and looked up to see Thomas sliding into the seat across the table, the picture of immaculate impassivity. He looked a world apart from the Thomas who had sat beside Jimmy at the fire last night; his hair was slicked back seamlessly, making his features look sharper than ever, and his grey eyes looked inscrutably icy in the morning light.

Jimmy swallowed his mouthful of toast and looked up to smile hopefully at Thomas, suddenly feeling inexplicably nervous again.

"Good morning, Mr. Barrow," he greeted, more cheerfully than he felt.

"Good morning." Thomas nodded briefly at Jimmy over his cup of tea, but the coldness of his eyes had melted slightly.

Jimmy relaxed a little, settling back into his seat and taking a gulp of tea. Although he knew barely anything about Thomas, Jimmy had known him long enough to be able to detect the subtle signs that showed whether or not he was angry, and Jimmy knew from experience— not personal— that if Thomas was angry with someone, he'd make it painfully clear through sniping comments or cruel sarcasm. Jimmy had never experienced Thomas' anger first-hand, and hoped he never would.

Apart from anything else, he sincerely hoped that he would never do something which would hurt Thomas enough to cause him to be angry.

The gallery on the top floor was draughty and dusty, and the bitter daylight that filtered through the windows illuminated the dust motes in the air like minute particles of snow. Even although Thomas didn't seem to be annoyed with him, the silence between them as they started working felt awkward and uneasy to Jimmy; Thomas never tended to initiate conversation, but Jimmy always talked, even if he didn't really have anything to say. But today, for some reason, Jimmy couldn't think of a single thing to say. In fact, it wasn't until after at least half an hour at work polishing the silver in the largest cabinet that the silence was broken at all, save for the clink of metal.

"You're very silent today."

Jimmy almost dropped the silver badge he was in the middle of polishing as he looked up. Thomas wasn't looking at him, rather at the piece of silver he was working on.

"I— yes. I didn't sleep well," Jimmy blurted.

"Why was that?" Thomas glanced up, and Jimmy caught a flicker of concern in his eyes.

Jimmy hesitated, unsure of the answer.

"It's alright," Thomas said, his tone less even than it had been a moment before. "Unofficial question. You don't have to answer it."

"Thanks," Jimmy replied gratefully, setting the silver badge back into the cabinet and picking up a tarnished medal. "I would if I knew the answer," he added honestly.

They lapsed back into silence for a while, but it was less uncomfortable, and Jimmy relaxed a little as he worked. There was something strangely soothing about polishing the silver— Jimmy had used to find it a tedious job when he first joined the household, but now he found it oddly satisfying. There was something very pleasing about starting off the day with something that was tarnished with time, and being able to make it shine as though it was brand new by the end of the day.

"Can you pass me the polish?" Jimmy asked as he picked up a particularly tarnished medal.

Wordlessly, Thomas handed him the little tin of polish, and Jimmy jumped slightly at the feeling of Thomas' fingers brushing against his as he did so. He was instantly reminded of sitting by the fire with Thomas the night before, letting Thomas hold his hand, his wrist, touch his skin and the pulse underneath. It shouldn't have felt so intimate, and it unsettled Jimmy that it had done; it felt as though Thomas was somehow touching more than just the surface of Jimmy's skin.

Annoyed with himself, Jimmy shook off the thoughts which had already plagued him into the early hours of the morning, and instead focused all his attention on polishing the medals as effectively as possible, humming slightly as he worked to block out the turmoil of questions and answers that churned through his mind.

Neither of them spoke properly until the first weak rays of autumnal sunshine melted through the frost and into the cold gallery, and Jimmy set down the last of the set of medals with a sigh, brushing his hair off his forehead and looking up at Thomas.

"Cigarette break?" he suggested hopefully, stretching his arms.

Thomas paused in his cleaning of a silver vase and consulted his pocket watch. "We've been working most of the morning. I suppose Mr. Carson probably wouldn't have a fit if we took a ten minute break."

Jimmy grinned and threw down his duster, following Thomas down the stairs.

The air in the yard was sharp and tasted of the sad rust of decaying leaves, but both were soon eclipsed by the smoke from Thomas' freshly lit cigarette.

"I assume when you suggested a cigarette break, you were simply hoping to steal my cigarettes?" Thomas remarked, but he held the box out to Jimmy anyway, eyes greyer than ever in the frail rays of sun that reached tentatively into the yard.

"I'm glad you interpreted my meaning so well, Mr. Barrow," Jimmy grinned, taking one from the box and lighting it, coughing slightly as the smoke enveloped his lungs.

Thomas smiled slightly, but didn't say anything, merely continued to smoke. Jimmy watched it curling away from him into the pale gold of the weak October sunlight, and was suddenly reminded of the game he'd used to play as a child with his older brother— they'd lived in a seaside village, and so every so often a sea mist would descend, smothering the streets. Jimmy had always been determined to catch the mist; he'd run after it, but no matter how far he ran, no matter how close he thought he was to it, it always slipped through his fingers— utterly intangible. Jimmy had mistaken its identity altogether, and hadn't come to realise what it truly was until some years later; that it was something he would never be able to hold tangibly in his bare hands.

"I think I've got another question for you," Jimmy said slowly after several moments of smoking in silence. He exhaled impatiently and looked at Thomas who was leaning against the wall beside him.

"Official or unofficial?" Thomas asked with the smallest hint of amusement.

"Official," Jimmy decided, taking another drag on his cigarette and fighting the desire to cough. "I want to know who the first friend you ever had was."

Thomas froze in the middle of tapping ash to the ground, eyes fixed on Jimmy.

"I can't really say I want to answer that," he said impassively.

"I'll have a month's supply of cigarettes then, please," Jimmy countered. "And don't think I'll share them with you, because I won't. Not a single one."

"I'm not even sure you ever buy your own cigarettes. I always share mine with you," Thomas pointed out evenly, dropping the end of his cigarette to the ground and crushing it beneath his heel.

"Well, you shouldn't," Jimmy teased.

He watched Thomas' jaw clench and unclench as he fumbled in his pocket and lit another cigarette, staring up at the frosty sunlight.

"My first friend," he began slowly, taking a drag of the fresh cigarette and blowing smoke up into the sky, "was a boy called Charlie McArthur. His father used to work for mine."

Jimmy stayed silent, sensing that Thomas hadn't finished speaking.

"Charlie and I always used to get sent off to play together while our fathers were working. We'd go down to the river at the back of the village and play at being knights from fairytales— we'd use the branches from the ancient birch tree as swords and pretended that the river was the moat guarding our castle. Silly, children's stuff." Thomas paused, taking a long drag of his cigarette, eyes faraway. "We grew up playing together, we were practically inseparable. But one day his father caught us playing together— we were pretending to be a king and a queen, and so we were holding hands."

Jimmy watched as Thomas broke off, jaw clenched. "We weren't even doing anything— we were both twelve for god's sake. But I never saw Charlie again after that, and my father sent me away to start working on my own."

Thomas lapsed into silence, smoke curling around him as he stared at the floor, the muscles of his jaw still clenched as though he regretted the words it had formed. The frail rays of October sunlight cast his shadow long and sad on the cobbled ground of the yard, and Jimmy swallowed tightly, suddenly feeling awful. He wished to god he'd never asked the question, because it hurt him more than he could ever have guessed to imagine young Thomas being so bewildered as to why he'd lost his only friend— and to see Thomas standing in front of him now, bitter and irreparably sad.

Jimmy didn't often notice it— Thomas concealed it well under a careful mask of impassivity and sarcasm, but it was shown up now by the tentative rays of feeble sunlight and the words that resonated around them with the smoke. The sunlight should have made things brighter, but they somehow just cast Thomas even more into shadow.

"Mr. Barrow— Thomas… I'm so sorry," Jimmy mumbled quietly, meaning every word of it. He dropped his cigarette guiltily to the ground, biting his lip as he stared at Thomas anxiously.

"Why are you sorry?" Thomas asked, looking up. His eyes were like broken glass, and it hurt Jimmy to look at them. "It's a lesson I had to learn. I only wish I'd learnt it sooner rather than later."

Jimmy didn't know what to say to that. "Mr. Barrow—"

"Come on, it's time we got back to work," Thomas cut across him, his voice carefully emotionless once more. Jimmy had never noticed how harsh it sounded in comparison to Thomas' voice when he was talking freely.

He felt deeply troubled as he watched Thomas stub his cigarette out and lead the way from the yard back upstairs to continue polishing the silver. Jimmy suddenly couldn't help thinking that Thomas himself was a little like the silver artefacts in the dusty gallery; tarnished and flawed by time.

Jimmy worked with Thomas in the gallery until after luncheon, when Thomas was required to attend to his Lordship, leaving Jimmy to work alone until dinner. Working alone was considerably less enjoyable, and Jimmy found that he missed Thomas' presence more than he would have expected.

He couldn't stop thinking about the story Thomas had told him, and spent the majority of the time in the gallery feeling inexplicably angry— he wasn't sure whom it was directed at; it wasn't towards Thomas or himself, but the story the other man had told him affected him more than he could have imagined. He couldn't bear thinking about the young, innocent Thomas standing alone and confused by the river before he was contorted by the ugly shadows of the church, but the image would not leave his mind. Jimmy sincerely hoped that Thomas was not as affected by telling the story as much as Jimmy had been by hearing it.

He felt grateful to see that Thomas looked no different from usual when he sat down in his seat at supper and gave Jimmy a slight smile, which Jimmy returned enthusiastically, feeling intensely grateful that the story didn't seem to be playing on Thomas' mind at all. They exchanged snippets of conversation after supper ended and people started heading up to bed, but Thomas was mostly reading the newspaper.

For a while, Jimmy read snatches of it over the other man's shoulder, but grew restless. He wanted to play the piano— but he was determined to try and get Thomas to join him. Jimmy wasn't sure quite how to broach the subject, however, and it was only when he decided he would need to say something before Thomas disappeared upstairs to bed that he decided to just come right out with it.

"Mr. Barrow, I'm going to play the piano before I go up— would you care to join me?" Jimmy asked hopefully, draining the last of his cocoa and standing up. The servants' hall was deserted by this point; the clock on the mantelpiece read just after eleven.

Thomas looked up from his newspaper, eyes conveying mild surprise. "Are you serious?"

"You know me, Mr. Barrow— I'm always serious," Jimmy said, deadpan.

"I somehow find that difficult to believe." Thomas' mouth twitched in amusement.

"Really, though, how about it?" Jimmy pressed, fixing Thomas with a grin. "I know you haven't played for ages, but we could try some duets to begin with, or maybe you—"

"Alright." Thomas was folding up his newspaper and standing up too. "If it'll get to you stop pestering me about it." It should have sounded irratated, but Thomas was smiling slightly as he said it.

"Brilliant," Jimmy grinned triumphantly, sliding down the piano stool a little to make room for Thomas, who hesitantly sat down beside him. There wasn't much space; Jimmy could feel the warmth of Thomas beside him, the way their legs were pressed together through the fabric of their black trousers and their shoulders brushed whenever Jimmy reached out to play. The scent of Thomas' cologne mingled with the slight sharpness of smoke was stronger than ever; Jimmy had rarely been this close to him for it to be so intoxicating.

"How about we start off with something pretty straightforward?" Jimmy suggested. "You only need to alternate between three chords for this one, I'll show you them."

Thomas nodded wordlessly, hands hesitating over the keys.

"Right, so it starts of with one in C major…" Jimmy tentatively positioned Thomas' fingers on the keys, trying to ignore that slight shiver that ran up his spine at the contact. He could feel Thomas' gaze heavy on him as Jimmy demonstrated the chords, and it made the heat creep up his cheeks. He broke off, looking up at Thomas.

"Your turn," Jimmy said, more quietly than he'd intended.

Wordlessly, Thomas looked away from Jimmy as though he didn't even realise he'd been staring, and stiffly played the chord, long fingers gripping the keys harder than necessary.

"Now the one in E…" Jimmy prompted, watching Thomas' pale fingers move to play the next chord. He could see the way that Thomas' jaw was clenched in concentration, the immaculate line of his inky hair sharpening his features, and felt a sudden pang of inexplicable affection for the other man.

"No, that finger should be here…" Jimmy corrected, hesitantly moving Thomas' index finger onto the right key, and feeling Thomas tense slightly from where they were pressed together on the piano stool.

"Like this?"

"Yeah. Want to try it together?" Jimmy suggested hopefully.

"If you like," Thomas agreed. Jimmy glanced sideways at him and flashed Thomas a quick grin, which the other man returned with an ease which surprised Jimmy. He couldn't help noticing that Thomas looked more as he'd done the night before in front of the fire again; less guarded, less careful. He looked more human. His pomaded hair was softening and coming out of place a little, and his eyes contradicted themselves in the dull light: warm and icy all at once. Jimmy fleetingly wondered whether it was just because it was the end of the day, or because it was just the two of them once more.

It took Jimmy a couple of bars of the music to adjust to playing a duet; Thomas' leg was pressed against his, and he could feel the brush of their arms as their hands moved along the keys, fingers clashing every so often and making their playing stumble and Jimmy grin, hair falling across his forehead.

He couldn't remember having felt happier, as his hands fumbled across the keys alongside Thomas', colliding and getting tangled up until the music was no longer how it had begun and they were both laughing so much they could barely continue to play.

"I'd forgotten how much fun it is playing with someone else," Jimmy grinned as they finished the piece. He looked up at Thomas, who was already looking at him, his smile softening the sharpness of his features. "Thanks."

"What for?" Thomas raised his eyebrows.

"Playing duets with me," Jimmy replied, idly playing scales with his right hand as he talked. "We should do it more often. You're good."

Thomas snorted. "It was fun. But I'm definitely not good— either you're a terrible judge of music, Jimmy, or you're a liar. And I'm afraid I very much suspect it's the latter."

"I'm not lying," Jimmy protested, switching to the C minor scale.

Thomas raised his eyebrows again, fumbling in his pocket for a cigarette and his lighter. "I played three chords."

"Yeah, well, you also haven't played for… a long time," Jimmy finished weakly, frowning and looking up. "You never even told me when you stopped playing."

Thomas put the cigarette to his lips and took a deep drag of it, blowing smoke deliberately in Jimmy's direction. "I don't have to tell you everything, you know."

"Yes you do," Jimmy grinned, nudging Thomas slightly.

The other man shook his head, but he was smiling too. Before he'd got to know Thomas, Jimmy would have thought that a smile would have looked wrong on him— but it somehow looked much more fitting than the sneers or the blankness.

"You're very persistent, Jimmy Kent. And too curious for your own good." Thomas pointed his cigarette at Jimmy accusingly, the smallest of smiles playing across his lips.

"What's wrong with being curious?" Jimmy demanded, deftly taking the cigarette from between Thomas' elegant fingers and putting it to his mouth, feeling the warmth of where it had been in Thomas' mouth moments before.

"Nothing," Thomas shrugged. "But you have to accept that there aren't answers to everything, or worse— you wish you'd never found the answers in the first place."

Jimmy considered this for a moment, resisting the urge to choke slightly on the smoke in his lungs as he handed the cigarette back to Thomas, feeling the soft brush of skin as their fingers touched and getting a sudden flashback of Thomas' hands round his last night in front of the fire. He shook his head slightly as though he was punch-drunk, reaching up and looking over the music sheets.

"Are you going to play anything else with me?"

"Maybe another night," Thomas said though breaths of smoke. It was so quiet in the servants' hall that Jimmy could hear the soft exhale of his breath as well as see it in the air that hung over the piano. "I'll stay and listen to you though, if you don't object."

"Why would I object?" Jimmy asked incredulously.

Thomas merely shrugged, tilting his head back slightly and blowing smoke upwards. Jimmy watched the muscles in his throat contract, and wondered if their sharp line continued past Thomas' collar. He wondered if Thomas was all straight lines and sharp angles beneath the stiff material of his livery, or whether he was softer, the way he was when he smiled— then he abruptly wondered where on earth that thought had come from and hurriedly looked away from Thomas and back at the piano in front of them, feeling heat suddenly burn his cheeks.

"Are you going to play anything, then?" Thomas asked after several moments, and Jimmy could feel the smoke brushing the shell of his ear, hot and intangible.

"What would you like me to play?" Jimmy asked, looking up at the other man and brushing back the strand of golden blonde hair that had fallen over his forehead as he and Thomas were playing.

"I don't mind," Thomas said indifferently. "Play what pleases you."

So Jimmy played the piece that Thomas had commented on several nights back, letting the chords and melodies fill the room and fill his mind so that by the time the piece was reaching it's crescendo, all Jimmy was remotely aware of was the serenity of the notes that flowed from his fingertips, the smoke from Thomas' cigarette stinging his lungs, and the warm pressure of Thomas's leg against his where he was sitting silently beside Jimmy on the piano stool.

As the piece slowed in cadence towards its end, Jimmy could feel the weight of Thomas' gaze on him. He looked up as he effortlessly played the last trio of notes, finding Thomas' eyes on him, heavy and inscrutable, their pupils blown with silent intensity. There was the subtlest pink tinge to his prominent cheekbones, and when Jimmy smiled at him, they darkened slightly and Thomas averted his eyes, taking a drag of his cigarette. Jimmy couldn't help noticing how his elegant fingers trembled slightly around it, and the way he could feel how tense Thomas was from where they were pressed together on the piano stool.

"You play beautifully," Thomas said quietly and unexpectedly after a moment, glancing up briefly to meet Jimmy's gaze. His cheeks were still faintly pink.

"Not really," Jimmy protested, surprised at the words that came out of his mouth; it was not like him to be modest. "I don't care about it— I don't put anything into the notes. They sound nice, but that's just the composer, not me."

"I quite disagree," Thomas raised his eyebrows. "And I would try to argue with you, but by this point I know it's perfectly pointless trying to argue with you about anything."

"Glad you've got that figured out," Jimmy flashed Thomas a grin, raking a hand through his blonde hair.

Thomas rolled his eyes slightly, but offered Jimmy the last of his cigarette.

"Thanks," Jimmy said, suddenly noticing that Thomas' glove was coming unbuttoned as he accepted the cigarette. "Your glove, Mr. Barrow…"

"Oh, is it coming undone again?" Thomas winced, holding it up and trying to button it, but his hands were still shaking slightly. "Blasted thing. I need a new one."

"Here, let me," Jimmy offered, stubbing out the cigarette and turning to face Thomas on the piano stool, taking the other man's hand slightly hesitantly. It felt odd, holding Thomas' hand the same way he'd held Jimmy's yesterday… Jimmy wondered what Thomas had thought about when he was holding Jimmy's hand still; whether he'd noticed the slight flutter of a pulse under the skin, the soft skin that contrasted with all the sharp angles of the bones, the subtle warmth of someone else. His hands skittered along the smooth skin of Thomas' wrist, feeling the warmth of it under his fingertips.

"You— Jimmy, you don't need to do that." It sounded as though Thomas' jaw was clenched, but Jimmy ignored him, not entirely sure why he wanted to fasten the glove; to feel how hard the leather was in comparison to Thomas' soft skin.

"I don't mind," Jimmy replied honestly, carefully turning Thomas' hand over and fastening the little buttons on the glove. He could feel Thomas' pulse hammering away under the pale skin of his wrist, and let his fingertips linger there for a moment, feeling Thomas. "Do… do you ever let anyone see it?"

"You've already had your official question for the day," Thomas said faintly.

Jimmy looked up, suddenly realising how close he and Thomas were sitting— Jimmy could see every fleck in Thomas' infinitely grey eyes and the way the pools of black were heavy in them; could almost taste the heady scent of Thomas' cologne on the air between them; could feel the soft exhale of breath on his cheek; could almost see the pulse fluttering under the pale skin of Thomas' neck. He could see the clench of Thomas' jaw and the sharpness of his cheekbones that didn't go with the heavy warmth of his eyes. The air between them was thick with smoke and music and the warmth of proximity, and Jimmy suddenly found it hard to breathe.

Swallowing, he slowly let go of Thomas' hand, but didn't look away.

"I should be going to bed," he said quietly, although he had not intended for his voice to be close to a whisper.

Thomas nodded, dropping his gaze instantly and getting up from the piano stool, the space beside Jimmy suddenly feeling cold. He hastily put the sheet music back in place and followed suit, taking the lamp from the table and leading the way into the hallway and up the stairs a silence that did not extend to Jimmy's thoughts.

It was only when they were in the hall between his room and Thomas' that Jimmy spoke suddenly, realising something.

"You haven't asked me my question yet, Mr. Barrow."

Thomas smiled slightly, although it didn't quite soften the sharpness of his features this time. "That's because I'm not sure whether I want to know the answer."

"You'll never know the answer at all if you don't ask it," Jimmy pointed out, stomach suddenly knotted with nerves as he regarded Thomas in the soft light of the lamp.

Thomas sighed. "Well, sticking with your theme of friends from earlier…" Thomas broke off, shaking his head, expression strained. "Actually, never mind."

"You have to ask me something," Jimmy said indignantly.

"Fine," Thomas' jaw clenched and unclenched, but his tone wasn't unkind. "Have an easy one, then. It's Friday; what was your favourite thing about this week?"

Jimmy considered the question for a moment, frowning slightly. "I'm not sure."

"I hate to think what your answer would have been if I'd given you a difficult question in that case," Thomas retorted, raising his eyebrows slightly at Jimmy.

"Give me a moment to think," Jimmy said impatiently. He briefly scanned the week in his mind; walking back from Ripon in the dusk with Thomas, playing the piano, spending half the nights awake and listening to the darkness, sitting by the warmth of the fire and letting Thomas clean his cut…

"My favourite thing about this week was playing duets," Jimmy decided, unable to suppress a smile at the recent memory— he could still almost feel the coolness of the keys beneath his fingers and feel the warmth of Thomas next to him.

Thomas blinked in surprise. "I feel flattered. I assumed you'd have chosen winning those free tickets for the pictures or Mr. Carson giving you a pay rise."

Jimmy felt caught utterly off guard— he suddenly realised that he hadn't even considered two things which should have so obviously been a favourite part of his week. It was horribly like that, with Thomas; the answers provided more questions than answers. Thomas' questions were questions that kept on asking, wherever Jimmy was, whatever he was doing. They were inescapable, and answerless, and they made Jimmy feel as though he didn't know himself at all.

Jimmy had started out wanting to know more about Thomas, but now he was beginning to feel as though he actually knew more about Thomas than about himself. Everything he seemed to know about himself seemed to be so precarious; the tiniest tug at it and it would suddenly all unravel, tangling up Jimmy's thoughts until he tripped over them.

"Jimmy?" Thomas' voice startled Jimmy from his thoughts, making him look up in surprise to find Thomas staring at him. He looked so much more at ease in the dull glow of the lamp between them than in the daylight— softened somehow; his eyes were warm and dark, his mouth quirked slightly in an unconscious smile, and his pomaded hair was falling out of place, the jet black of it making his skin look paler than ever.

"Sorry," Jimmy mumbled. "My mind was elsewhere."

"So I could see," Thomas agreed, looking vaguely concerned. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, of course," Jimmy swallowed, trying to reassure himself as much as Thomas.

"Well, I'll say goodnight, then," Thomas said slowly, still not looking convinced. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yes— are you coming to the harvest fair in the village?" Jimmy asked, suddenly remembering that Mrs. Hughes had allowed the staff time off to go down to the October fair as the family were going away to London for the weekend.

"I might," Thomas replied indifferently.

"Please do," Jimmy said insistently. "We can walk down together."

"If you like," Thomas said evenly, but he was smiling slightly in the lamplight. "Well, goodnight, Jimmy." He bowed his head slightly and turned around, going into his room and closing the door behind him with a soft click.

"Goodnight, Mr. Barrow," Jimmy replied quietly, even though Thomas had already left. With a heavy sigh, Jimmy turned around and went wearily into his own room, setting the lamp down on his bedside table and closing the door. The soft glow of it made his room seem cosy and cramped as Jimmy slumped down on the bed, thoughts suddenly more tangled than ever— and the scent of Thomas' cologne and cigarettes still stinging his lungs.


	5. Chapter 5

Jimmy didn't have any time to brood over questions the following morning. In any case, he didn't want to— he just wanted to talk to Thomas. He'd barely slept again, and what little fragmented sleep he had got had been filled with a young boy with jet black hair and skin as pale as the snow he was chasing. Jimmy had awoken with a jolt to the sound of his alarm, head still full of snowflakes and the trail of footprints he'd been following through a colourless forest, his heart thudding in his chest.

If Jimmy had somehow imagined that asking Thomas a few questions would stifle his curiosity, he was painfully wrong— all it had done was to make him even more desperate to find out every last thing he could about the other man. The more he discovered, the more fascinated he became. Tiny fragments of Thomas pieced themselves together in Jimmy's mind like the beginnings of a stained glass window; Thomas listening to his mother playing the piano, Thomas wounded in the trenches, Thomas playing imaginary games with a temporary friend…

It was fast becoming like an addiction; like the cigarettes Thomas smoked every day with Jimmy in the yard or the servants' hall after hours. Jimmy couldn't stop himself, couldn't erase the agitated excitement he felt at the prospect of deciding which question he was going to ask Thomas next and the anticipation of hearing the answer.

However, much to his annoyance, Jimmy didn't get the opportunity to talk to Thomas at all the following morning; it was spent in the bustle of preparations for the family's departure to stay with Lady Rosamund in London for the weekend. The hours dragged on from breakfast until luncheon, Jimmy getting increasingly agitated as he caught glimpses of Thomas in passing but was unable to stop and speak to him. Considering that Jimmy had yet another half-sleepless night, he should have felt exhausted from the flurry of work, but he didn't— instead he felt inexplicably alert and fidgety, even though he was never short of things to do.

It wasn't until the late luncheon that Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes had organised for the staff before they headed off down to the harvest fair that Jimmy managed to speak to Thomas at all, sliding into his usual opposite him at the table.

Thomas had been as impassive and inscrutable as ever, but had agreed to walk down to the fair in the village with Jimmy after he'd finished a couple of errands that Lord Grantham had left for him— so as soon as lunch was over and Thomas departed to finish the work he'd been left, Jimmy hurried upstairs to change out of his livery. It had been weeks since he could remember having had an afternoon off— he'd been down to Ripon or to the village on various errands every so often, but the last time he'd had some proper time off was probably the fair in Thirsk.

The memory made guilt stick like a splinter in Jimmy's throat and he swallowed uncomfortably, pushing the thoughts to the back of his mind as he opened his closet and pulled out his favourite pastel blue shirt and navy tie. As he began unbuttoning his livery, his mind drifted back to Thomas. He rarely spent time with Thomas outside the house— occasionally they went on errands together, but that was different, they were still technically at work, and Thomas always maintained his seamless professional front.

Jimmy couldn't help hoping that he might catch a few more illuminating glimpses of Thomas at the fair; glimpses like the ones he caught when Thomas was bandaging his hand or playing duets with him. Jimmy wondered fleetingly whether Thomas had ever gone to fairs like the harvest one in the village when he was young; if he'd gone with his mother who played the piano so beautifully, or with Charlie McArthur before Thomas lost him, or with his father, who'd sent Thomas away just for caring about someone else.

As Jimmy checked his reflection in the glass on his vanity, he felt an odd feeling curling in the pit of his stomach. It was like nerves and excitement at the same time, curling in his stomach in a way that wasn't entirely unpleasant. Jimmy couldn't quiet put the feeling into words; it was like nerves and excitement, but it was also a little like the time he'd first watched the forbidding December sky and waited for the snow to fall.

Much to Jimmy's distaste, Ivy cornered him as he was waiting in the servants' hall for Thomas, leaning against the wall by the piano and smoking. He didn't normally smoke on his own, but he felt fidgety and impatient, and needed to do something with his hands. The smoke stung at his lungs as he sucked it in, but it numbed his feeling of restlessness slightly.

"Do you want to walk down with me, Jimmy?" Ivy asked hopefully, smiling prettily at him. Jimmy vaguely noted that she was wearing rouge on her cheeks again.

"I'm walking with Mr. Barrow— sorry," Jimmy said, insincerely. He took a brief drag of his cigarette, raking a hand through his blonde hair. His hands were shaking slightly from the kind of fidgety agitation that comes with lack of sleep, even though Jimmy felt the last thing from tired.

"I don't know why you spend so much time with him," Ivy muttered, her facing falling. "He's not nice to anyone."

"He's nice to me," Jimmy said loyally, tapping ash into the glass tray on the table before him just as Thomas appeared in the doorway, and Jimmy instantly stood up properly, stomach suddenly lurching.

"Who's nice to you?" Thomas asked idly, quirking an eyebrow at Jimmy.

"You are," Jimmy replied casually, stubbing his cigarette out and going across to where Thomas was standing by the doorway. "I was just telling Ivy."

Thomas raised his eyebrows again, but said nothing.

"Are you ready?" Jimmy asked, looking at the other man expectantly. He rarely saw Thomas out of his uniform; it made him look strangely informal, but Jimmy thought it suited him too— the red of his tie made his complexion more striking than ever. Jimmy suddenly thought how disappointed many girls would be if they knew Thomas could never be interested in them.

"When you are," Thomas replied, putting on his black bowler hat.

"Maybe I'll see you at the fair then, Jimmy?" Ivy asked hopefully.

"Mm. Maybe," Jimmy replied distractedly, not even glancing back at her as he followed Thomas down the hallway and out into the yard, where the icy October air whipped around them, bitter despite the sun sinking low in the skyline.

Thomas glanced back at him as they crossed the yard, grey eyes sharp in the glittering late-afternoon sun. "Didn't you want to walk with the others?"

"No," Jimmy shook his head vigorously. "Why, do you?" he frowned, falling into step with Thomas as they left the yard and started down the windswept lane. The light October breeze ruffled Jimmy's golden hair and he could taste rust on the tip of his tongue along with the slight tang of Thomas' cologne.

"God no," Thomas shook his head, fumbling in his pocket and drawing out his box of cigarettes. Jimmy watched Thomas lighting his cigarette with long, elegant fingers and fleetingly thinking that he knew what it was like to touch those hands; how warm they felt under his fingertips. It made the other man seem more real, less ethereal, when Jimmy could remember the way he could feel Thomas' pulse hammer wildly away under the seamless exterior.

"Why would you think I would want to, then?" Jimmy retorted once Thomas had lit the cigarette and slid the lighter back into the pocket of his dark coat.

"I imagine Ivy would like it if you did," Thomas remarked evenly, drawing in a breath of his cigarette and letting the smoke curl out into the crisp afternoon air.

"I imagine you're right," Jimmy grinned, making Thomas roll his eyes slightly.

They walked in silence for several moments, leaves crunching slightly under their footfall and falling wetly to the ground from the stark trees like melted golden snow.

"Sleep any better last night?" Thomas asked conversationally, tapping ash from his cigarette to the already smouldered leaves that lined the path from Downton to the village.

Jimmy flinched slightly, wondering for a moment how on earth Thomas could have known that'd he'd once more spent the best part of the night lying half-awake, staring at the ceiling, questions buzzing through his mind like mayflies. Then with a jolt, he remembered that Thomas knew because he'd blurted it out the day before when they were cleaning silver in the upstairs gallery.

"Oh— I— yes, thank you, Mr. Barrow," Jimmy stuttered.

"You're a terrible liar, Jimmy," Thomas commented, glancing sideways at him. His tone was light and easy, but his grey eyes were clouded with a worry that made Jimmy feel surprisingly guilty. "And you have bags under your eyes."

"Give us a cigarette," Jimmy said cheerily, trying to detract from the real question that was laced into Thomas' words— but he knew Thomas wasn't fooled. Jimmy could pull his charming smile on anyone else and it'd work, but it never worked on Thomas.

It suddenly struck him as strange; the charm which attracted all the girls never seemed to move Thomas— the person who claimed to be in love with him— in the slightest. Jimmy suddenly wondered what on earth Thomas saw in him if he was so unaffected by the charming smiles and flirtation.

"You know, I think this deal of ours is pretty unfair," Thomas commented, breaking through Jimmy's thoughts by handing him a cigarette and lighting it.

"What do you mean?" Jimmy choked on the smoke from the first inhale, a shot of panic shooting through him at the thought of Thomas refusing to answer any more of his questions.

"Well, the deal was that if either of us back out and refuse to answer a question, we buy the other a months' worth of cigarettes— but I'm pretty sure you owe me that anyway. Have you ever bought your own since you arrived here?" Thomas quirked his eyebrows slightly at Jimmy, grey eyes carefully neutral, but Jimmy detected the smallest hint of amusement behind them.

"I don't see you complaining when I share yours," Jimmy shrugged, relaxing.

"Steal, Jimmy. You mean steal."

"No, I mean share," Jimmy grinned, exhaling lazily into the cold air. "It's not stealing if you give them back— and I usually only have a few drags of yours."

"I suppose it's a fair enough price to pay for being your friend," Thomas remarked carelessly, making Jimmy frown again, because he didn't know whether Thomas was being serious or not— and he didn't quite have the nerve to ask.

"Did you used to go to fairs like this when you were growing up?" Jimmy asked instead, walking slightly more closely to Thomas as the lane narrowed out towards the village. He could vaguely feel the warmth of the other man's body beside him radiating through the cold air between them.

"Is that your official question?" Thomas asked, quirking his eyebrows and deliberately blowing smoke at Jimmy so that he spluttered.

"No," Jimmy coughed, elbowing Thomas indignantly in the ribs. "I was just curious."

"You're always curious," Thomas mused, taking another drag of the cigarette, and Jimmy couldn't argue with that. "What about you— did you ever go to any?"

"A fair came to our village once every year— in the summer, because the seaside attracted tourists then," Jimmy replied. "I loved it. I used to spend all my pocket money on the swings… they were my favourite. You know that swooping feeling you get in your stomach that's kind of like you're about to be ill but you're so happy at the same time?" he glanced questioningly sideways at Thomas, slightly breathless.

Thomas held his gaze for a moment in a way that suddenly made Jimmy feel as though he could not let go. "I know," he replied after a moment, voice as even as ever, smoke curling from his mouth.

"Well, that's what I loved about them," Jimmy continued, looking away from Thomas and towards the horizon that was troubled with a tangle of sun and cloud, "that feeling. When I was young I used to wish I could feel like that all the time."

Thomas didn't reply, merely continued to smoke silently as they walked, and Jimmy lapsed into silence because he somehow felt as though he'd missed something that had been said— even though he'd been listening attentively. He had the peculiar feeling that he was suddenly a child again and had completely missed the point of a conversation because he was simply too young to understand.

Frowning slightly, Jimmy kicked at the clumps of crimson and amber leaves as they walked down into the village, the feeble rays of sun still not quite courageous enough to create any warmth against the unforgiving frost.

The fair was small but full of bustle and noise in the middle of the village green. A faint mist was beginning to curl around the square by the time Jimmy and Thomas arrived, making the lights and colours of the rides and stalls more vivid than ever— as though they were colouring in a black and white picture alongside the orange leaves of the popular trees surrounding the square.

"Oh Christ, Ivy's coming over," Jimmy scowled as he and Thomas came to halt at the edge of the green. He blew smoke from his lungs and dropped the cigarette Thomas had provided him with to the cold ground. "She was so desperate to get me to take her round the bloody fair."

"So why don't you?" Thomas asked evenly, slowly blowing smoke into the mist. He looked more sombre than ever standing in the mist in his black coat and bowler hat.

Jimmy frowned. "What?"

"She's pretty, she's only marginally annoying, and you know she'd do anything for you. Perhaps you should spend some of your time with her—" Thomas broke off, taking a long drag of his cigarette, eyes fluttering closed for a fleeting second, "—rather than spending all your time with me." The smoke got caught in his words, spilling out into the air between them.

"But— I like spending time with you, Mr. Barrow," Jimmy said honestly, suddenly feeling wrong-footed.

"That's very kind of you to say, Jimmy," Thomas replied evenly, expression carefully indifferent— but his eyes were like broken glass again, and Jimmy didn't know how he'd shattered it. He wanted to reach out, but he didn't know how not to get cut.

"I'm not being kind, Mr. Barrow," he protested, frowning at Thomas. "I'm being sincere."

"Are you really saying you'd rather spend your time with me than with a pretty girl?" Thomas asked dryly, finishing his cigarette and dropping it to the ground beside Jimmy's, where he crushed them both with the heel of his shoe.

Jimmy frowned; when Thomas put it like that, it did sound silly. Ivy was exactly the kind of girl Jimmy used to go for in a heartbeat— of course he'd rather spend time with her than with Thomas. Wouldn't he?

"I suppose I could take her to a couple of rides," Jimmy conceded. "She is… very pretty," he added, still frowning slightly.

"Very." Thomas seemed to be attempting to smile, but his jaw was clenched too much for it to work.

"But… I'll see you later?" Jimmy found himself asking expectantly as he turned to go, somehow feeling as though he was doing something wrong. The whole atmosphere felt off as Thomas nodded mutely, his eyes flickering slightly like clouds sliding across the sun— and then they were inscrutable once more.

With a sigh, Jimmy turned away from him and crossed the green with a sinking feeling in his stomach he tried hard to ignore.

Jimmy regretted agreeing to go round the fair with Ivy almost immediately; she chattered away constantly with no room for silence and hung onto his arm, giggling, which somehow irritated Jimmy intensely. He disliked the pretty, flowery scent she was wearing and she said all the wrong things— they were too naïve and painfully easy to interpret. By the time they'd gone on the carousel and Jimmy had bought her ginger pop from one of the stalls, he could barely stand the sight of her. This in turn made Jimmy feel increasingly frustrated and confused; he simply didn't understand why he failed to find Ivy attractive. Thomas was right; she was exactly the type Jimmy would have gone for only a few months earlier. He just didn't understand why he couldn't like her now. He desperately tried to appreciate her pink lips and curvy figure and her soft wavy hair, but he just couldn't bring himself to find her attractive.

It was beginning to get dark when he eventually managed to shake her off and find Thomas. He was standing alone under one of the stark popular trees, smoking again. Although he looked solemn and as much of a closed book as ever, he his mouth pulled up into a slight smile when Jimmy approached— although it didn't reach his eyes, which remained clouded.

"Have fun?" he asked lightly, offering Jimmy the cigarette.

"God no. It was awful," Jimmy shook his head, taking the cigarette gratefully.

"Poor Ivy." Thomas' mouth twitched.

"What do you mean, 'poor Ivy'?" Jimmy exclaimed, choking on the smoke as he looked at Thomas indignantly. "Poor me! I was the one who had to endure her telling me all about the new dress she's going to buy and the plays she wants to go and see. How did I never notice how boring girls are before?"

Thomas didn't say anything to this, merely raised his eyebrows slightly as Jimmy handed back his cigarette, feeling as though he'd somehow missed the significance of the gesture.

"So, do you want to go on any of the rides?" Jimmy offered, shivering slightly in his coat. "I know it's starting to get dark, but we should still have a little while. My treat."

"That's very generous of you," Thomas frowned. "I couldn't possibly—"

"Just think of it as payment for all the cigarettes I'll take from you in the future," Jimmy grinned, and knew he'd said the right thing when a grin split across Thomas' features and he shook his head slightly, finishing his cigarette.

"Alright, then." Thomas ground the cigarette under his foot and shoved his hands into the pocket of his coat. "What do you want to do?"

"Let's see if we can win something," Jimmy suggested.

Thomas shrugged easily. "Up to you."

They both crossed the darkened village green in companionable silence. The lights of the scattered rides and the lamps of the stalls still open made it look cosy and inviting in comparison to the stark iciness of the night that swirled around them, numbing and starless. Jimmy could feel the slight warmth of Thomas beside him and smell the familiar scent of smoky cologne and smiled slightly, feeling at ease for the first time since he'd arrived at the fair.

They spent ages going round all the different stalls, laughing at the prizes and commenting on the various spices and groceries Mrs. Patmore would want to buy. Jimmy couldn't remember having had so much fun. Going around the fair with Thomas was completely different to going round the fair with Ivy; Thomas didn't chatter in an endless stream of meaningless words, instead he spoke intermittently and said things that either made Jimmy laugh or intrigued and frustrated him all at once because he felt he didn't quite understand their full meaning. His comments might frequently be stark and blunt, but Thomas was rarely literal in his words.

Being around Thomas was simultaneously the easiest thing in the world and the hardest— it was easy because Jimmy had never felt more comfortable around someone, and it was the hardest because it was somehow never quite enough. Jimmy felt as though he still only saw the tiniest glimmers of Thomas, and he always, always wanted to know more.

"Perhaps we should be heading back," Thomas suggested when frost was beginning to sparkle on the ground and night had fallen properly, cloaking the square in darkness. He paused, taking a swig of his ginger beer. Jimmy noticed how it made his lips redder than usual, striking against the pallor of his face.

"Alright," Jimmy conceded with a sigh, draining the last of his drink. "One last thing, though, if it's all the same to you, Mr. Barrow."

Thomas raised his eyebrows questioningly.

Jimmy pointed over at the edge of the green. "The swings."

Thomas rolled his eyes slightly, but he was smiling too. "Alright."

"Will you come on too?"

"If you like," Thomas replied, taking another swig of his ginger beer as they crossed the green towards the swings. The mist from earlier had cleared slightly, and the stars were visible in the night's sky as they paid for the swings and clambered into the cold wooden swing. The fair was mainly deserted around them now, just the last few stalls packing up.

The swings were just the same as Jimmy had remembered; the wonderful swooping feeling in his stomach, the cold wind stinging his cheeks, the smile splitting his face. Thomas was smiling too— a proper unguarded, genuine smile that showed all his teeth and made his eyes crinkle round the edges as they soared backwards and forwards, the starry black sky swirling overhead until Jimmy felt dizzy with happiness and nostalgia.

It was nearing ten o'clock when they finally departed from the fair and started up the darkened lane towards Downton, stars glittering in the loneliness of the sky they punctured. They walked slowly, Thomas smoking— occasionally passing the cigarette over to Jimmy. The air was cold and still all around them, tinted with frost, and the branches of the trees on either side of the lane shivered.

"I have to say, I enjoyed this fair a lot better than the last one," Thomas mused, taking his cigarette back from Jimmy and putting it to his lips. Jimmy felt dimly surprised at how strongly the guilt lodged itself in his throat at Thomas' words, erasing all the comfortable happiness that had accumulated itself over the afternoon.

"Don't," Jimmy said, swallowing, and Thomas looked around in surprise at the hurt in Jimmy's voice, grey eyes far more vivid than the stars in the pallor of his face.

"Sorry," he said after a moment, still studying Jimmy closely. Jimmy could feel the strength of the other man's gaze on him, and felt uncomfortably exposed. He always felt as though Thomas had an uncanny knack of being able to see right through him when he chose to— when Jimmy least wanted him to. Sometimes it felt as though Thomas could see more he understood in Jimmy than Jimmy himself could.

"You haven't got anything to apologise for," Jimmy said edgily, fiddling with the buttons on his coat and not meeting Thomas' gaze as they continued to walk.

"Quite the contrary, I'm afraid," Thomas replied quietly.

Jimmy frowned, unscrewing the lid of the bottle of strawberry wine he'd won at one of the stalls. He took a gulp, feeling the sweet liquid burn at his throat, and held it out to Thomas.

"Let's not talk about it," Jimmy said as Thomas took a swig from the bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Let's ask our questions for today."

"You first," Thomas exhaled, smoke curling into the frosty night air in front of them. He handed the bottle back to Jimmy, and Jimmy felt the warmth of his fingers for a second as he took it and screwed the lid back on.

"I always go first," Jimmy pointed out, glancing at Thomas. He was a shadow beside him in the darkness, eyes reflecting the stars and blurring into the shadows.

"It was your idea," Thomas countered, but he took a long drag of his cigarette and paused. "Why are you friends with me?"

Jimmy stopped in his tracks, staring at Thomas. The night around them suddenly seemed stiller and more silent than ever without their footsteps, as though it had only existed while they walked. Thomas' eyes were all the broken glass that Jimmy sought to piece together and create a picture that made sense, and they sliced through him as he held Thomas' gaze.

"Is it out of guilt?" Thomas asked evenly, although his fingers shook around his cigarette, and Jimmy was still cut by his gaze.

"What— no. No!" Jimmy exclaimed, his voice shattering the silence around them as he stared incredulously at Thomas. "How— how can you think that?"

Thomas didn't say anything, but his eyes were more poignant than the stars, and Jimmy's heart was thudding in his chest.

"Of course it's not because of that!"

"Then tell me why," Thomas said quietly.

"Thomas…" Jimmy began more softly, swallowing hard and keeping his gaze fixed on the path ahead that wound through the darkness back to familiarity. "Perhaps… perhaps when I first offered to make friends with you, a tiny fraction of it was out of guilt— but that's not the reason I'm friends with you now."

"Then why are you friends with me now?" Thomas pressed, voice more uneven than usual.

"I…" Jimmy frowned, trying to think. His thoughts were suddenly like mist; impossible to catch and understand. He shook his head in frustration. "I can't explain it."

Thomas said nothing, but Jimmy could see the clench of his jaw in his peripheral vision.

"I don't think there is just one reason— or not one I can explain, anyway," Jimmy said slowly, fiddling with the buttons on his coat. "But I do know that you fascinate me. No matter how much I speak to you, I can never figure you out. What you say and what you do don't match; your eyes never say what your mouth does. Every time I think I have you figured out, you'll do something and I'll realise I'm not even close to figuring you out."

Jimmy frowned in contemplation, still fiddling absent-mindedly with the buttons on his coat as they walked through darkness and silence. "You're my friend… you're my friend— because you're the first person besides myself I've ever been interested in. I'm only friends with you because I want to be."

The words that had spilled from his mouth and now hung around them like the mist that was starting to obscure the stars startled Jimmy, even though they had come from him. He glanced around at Thomas, wide-eyed at his own revelation.

Thomas' gaze was utterly unreadable. His jet black hair was ruffled by the cold breeze, his skin so pale that together he looked as though he was in black-and-white. But his grey eyes were full of colour as he looked at Jimmy.

He didn't say anything, but after a moment he tentatively handed Jimmy his cigarette, linking them together in the bitter darkness for a split second.

"Thanks," Jimmy mumbled, feeling distinctly uncomfortable at the words that he could feel still lingering around them like the smoke from Thomas' cigarette. His heart was thudding in his chest. It was strange how you sometimes didn't know the answer to a question until you were asked.

"I don't know what to say." Thomas' voice still sounded uneven as he fell into step with Jimmy. Jimmy could taste the heady hint of his cologne on the cold air between them, and it was oddly reassuring. "I think that's one of the nicest things someone has said about me."

"I wasn't being nice, I was just being honest," Jimmy replied, handing the cigarette back to Thomas and taking a long gulp of the strawberry wine.

"Well, thank you," Thomas replied quietly.

They walked in silence for several moments, and Jimmy felt acutely aware of the warmth of Thomas's body beside him in the frosty night air. He could smell Thomas' heady cologne more clearly than the decaying leaves and the muddy ground, and could feel the slight brush of their hands as they walked up the narrow path. Jimmy had never wished more that he knew what Thomas was thinking; it frustrated him endlessly to look at Thomas and have utterly no idea what he was thinking or feeling when Thomas seemed to be able to know what he was thinking in a single glance. Jimmy felt as though he had never felt more frustrated by Thomas' complete inscrutability.

"What are you thinking?" Jimmy asked suddenly. All the questions he'd been trying to choose from all day suddenly disappeared— all he wanted to know was what was behind the careful composure of Thomas' eyes that moment; to see how he saw things, even if it was only for a moment— a split second. It suddenly seemed more important than anything to know what the other man was thinking.

Thomas blinked, smoke curling from between his lips as he looked at Jimmy in the darkness. "I'm sorry?"

"That's my question," Jimmy said decisively. "I want to know what you think."

"I've thought quite a lot over the years. Perhaps you should narrow it down," Thomas remarked lightly, holding out the last of his cigarette for Jimmy.

"Right now. I want to know what you're thinking right now," Jimmy clarified, taking the cigarette and shivering slightly at the brush of warm skin in contrast to the frosty air curling around them, whimsical and lonely.

"Are you sure?" Thomas asked quietly.

Jimmy swallowed, glancing at Thomas. He was as unreadable as the night that swirled around them; eyes that forever contradicted his mouth. "Yes."

"Alright," Thomas sighed, his breath as smoky in the bitterness of the night as the smoke that stung Jimmy's lungs. "I'm thinking that I wish I had your courage. I'm thinking that the stars look so far away, and that I wish I didn't feel the way I do for you. I'm thinking that happiness isn't really happiness because it's so fleeting— and yet I'm so happy right now. I'm thinking how much you fascinate me, Jimmy."

"But— I'm not interesting at all," Jimmy blinked, heart thudding in his chest so loudly he was afraid that Thomas could hear it in the rustle of their footsteps.

"I disagree." Thomas raised his eyebrows slightly.

"No one's ever thought I'm interesting before," Jimmy blurted.

"You don't know that," Thomas frowned at him.

"I do. I'm charming, I'm handsome—"

"— Not to mention extremely modest," Thomas said dryly.

"If you weren't my superior, Mr. Barrow, I'd have to tell you to shut up," Jimmy retorted, but he nudged Thomas gently to show he wasn't being serious.

"It's just as well I'm your superior then," Thomas quipped, the smallest of smiles pulling at his mouth.

"But what I meant to say is— that's it. I might be charming, but that doesn't make me interesting. I've never had to be interesting," Jimmy muttered, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. He hadn't quite meant to say it— he hadn't realised it was true until he'd spoken the words.

"You know something," Thomas remarked, regarding Jimmy intently. "For someone so clever, you can be remarkably stupid."

"Excuse me?" Jimmy choked, but Thomas was smiling. "What exactly do you mean by that?"

"No more questions," Thomas said quietly, throwing his finished cigarette to the ground. "You've used up your question for today."

"There's always tomorrow," Jimmy said reluctantly.

"I suppose there is."

"I'm counting on it," Jimmy said, grinning at Thomas.

Thomas suddenly smiled back. It was just a small smile, but it was genuine, and it lit up the grey of his eyes until it Jimmy felt as though he couldn't look away from them.

They lapsed back into silence as they continued walking. Jimmy could see Downton in the distance now, and although his feet ached with tiredness, he had never felt more awake. A kind of unspoken warmth lingered between them— perhaps it was due to what they'd just said, or perhaps it was the result of the cold strawberry wine, Jimmy wasn't sure. All he knew was that he suddenly thought that he couldn't remember a moment where he'd felt more alive than he did at that moment, walking in the darkness with Thomas under a sky where the mist blew out the stars like candles and there were more questions than answers.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Just wanted to quickly say an absolutely **_**massive**_** thanks to anyone who has favourite/reviewed this, it is seriously amazing. Your comments just make my whole week; I love hearing what you think of the story. Anyway, I just wanted to say thank you— enjoy the update! **

A thin drizzle was beginning to fall in icy sheets from the darkening sky when Jimmy ducked out into the yard, carefully closing the door behind him. It was just after supper, and as soon as Jimmy had seen Thomas slip away from the busy table, cigarettes and lighter in one hand, he'd followed; much to Jimmy's disappointment, he hadn't had the chance to speak a single word to Thomas all day, as the latter had been away on an errand in Ripon. Despite the characteristic bustle of the household, Jimmy had been surprised at how oddly lonely it felt without him.

"How was Ripon?" Jimmy asked, the bitterness of the November night making his skin smart as he crossed the yard to where Thomas was standing silently, staring up at the blank sky with an unreadable expression.

At the sound of Jimmy's voice, he turned around, smoke curling through the rain. He shrugged carelessly in response to the question, but moved over slightly to allow space for Jimmy to stand beside him under the eaves, away from the icy drizzle that stuck the dead leaves to the cold ground.

"Uninteresting," Thomas replied after a moment, tapping ash to the wet concrete at their feet with a swift, elegant movement of his hand. "How was your day?" he countered, passing Jimmy his cigarette.

Jimmy took it gratefully, huddling closer to Thomas away from the bitter rain. He shivered slightly as Thomas' fingers brushed his, suddenly noticing how he could smell Thomas' distinctive cologne mingled with the smoke around them in the small space hidden away from the rain.

"It was awful," Jimmy replied honestly, taking a brief drag on the cigarette and suppressing the urge to cough. It was true; he had spent the entire day feeling agitated, distracted, and distinctly fed up. The hours had seemed to drag on even more than usual without the brief glimpses of Thomas in the hallways or the prospect sitting beside him at luncheon even if they barely exchanged a handful of words.

Jimmy hadn't realised how much he relied on Thomas' company throughout the course of a day; how boring things were without him— he fleetingly wondered how he had managed before they had become friends. It suddenly seemed like a very long time ago.

Thomas raised his eyebrows slightly as Jimmy took another brief drag of the cigarette, expelling smoke into the small, sheltered space. "Awful?"

"Yes," Jimmy said seriously, handing Thomas back the cigarette and feeling the warm brush of skin in contrast to the stinging rain. Not only had the day been tedious, but Jimmy had also found himself increasingly distracted by thoughts of the previous night and the walk back to Downton in the darkness. Something had changed on that walk home; just something minute, subtle, almost non-existent. Jimmy couldn't put his finger on what it was, but he knew it had changed. Something had changed without him even realising it, and now none of his thoughts quite fitted together in the same way as before.

"It can't have been all that bad," Thomas remarked coolly, startling Jimmy from the thread of his thoughts and making him glance up, meeting Thomas' quizzical grey eyes through the shadows.

"It was. I may have induced Mr. Carson's small breakdown over the silverware this evening," Jimmy admitted, raking a hand through his blonde hair. "He hates me."

Thomas raised his eyebrows questioningly again, smoke unfurling from his lungs into the air around them— but this time Jimmy shook his head. He didn't need Thomas to know that his thoughts had been so inundated with questions and their possible answers that he'd barely been able to concentrate all day. Try as he might, Jimmy just couldn't erase the curiosity that had been tugging at his subconscious with increasing strength every day. Every new question just seemed to open a whole new door, and Jimmy couldn't stop thinking about it.

Thomas' mouth quirked slightly as he blew smoke out into the cold rain. "Nothing unexpected, then."

Jimmy grinned, glancing up at Thomas. "No. Ivy's been bugging me all day, though. I told you it was a mistake to let her take me round the fair. She wants me to take her to some boring play next month."

"Are you going to?" Thomas asked evenly, tapping ash to the ground and glancing round at Jimmy, eyes greyer than the falling rain.

"Am I hell!" Jimmy snorted, accepting another drag of the cigarette and feeling the warmth from where it had been between Thomas' lips moments before.

"Perhaps you should," Thomas said impassively, taking the cigarette back and taking a long drag of it, fingers steady.

Jimmy looked around at him incredulously in the dark, heart thudding. "What?"

"You should spend more time with her— spending all your time with me won't do you any favours. It certainly won't encourage people to like you," Thomas added wryly, exhaling smokily. His eyes didn't quite meet Jimmy's.

"I don't care about people," Jimmy frowned, feeling wrong-footed.

"You should," Thomas said tersely, tapping ash to the wet concrete floor and still not looking at Jimmy properly. Jimmy could see the clench of his jaw in the shadows.

"Well, I don't care about what I should or shouldn't do, either," Jimmy retorted, beginning to feel angry. "Do you not _want_ to spend time with me or something, Mr. Barrow? Because if that's why you're trying to push me onto Ivy, then just_say_ so."

"Of course—" Thomas' voice was quiet and pained, and his eyes flickered to capture Jimmy's for a split second through the smoke and rain and shadows, "— of _course_ I want to spend time with you, Jimmy."

"Then why are you so keen for me to spend all my time with bloody _Ivy_ instead of you?" Jimmy demanded, the words coming out more forcefully than he'd intended. He couldn't quite help it; he'd wanted to talk to Thomas all day, and now it was all falling apart and Jimmy didn't even know why. He hated not understanding, hated how helpless and naïve it made him feel. It was like trying to read in the dark.

"I just… I don't want to be the reason you're isolated from everyone else," Thomas replied quietly, smoke clouding his words. "I want you to be happy."

"And what about your happiness?" Jimmy challenged, eyes holding Thomas' behind the tendrils of smoke. Their grey flickered, cutting Jimmy out.

Thomas' jaw clenched, and he abruptly dropped his cigarette to the ground. "I've had a long day. I'm going to bed."

"But, Mr. Barrow—"

"Goodnight, Jimmy." Thomas ducked out into the icy drizzle without looking back and crossed the yard briskly, the fine rain unsettling his pomaded hair.

"Mr. Barrow—" Jimmy protested angrily after his retreating figure, but Thomas didn't turn around. Warm yellow light spilled out from the kitchen when he opened the door, and then was extinguished instantly when he pulled it shut behind him, leaving Jimmy shivering in the November drizzle, anger and confusion clawing at his lungs along with the remnants of the smoke still lingering in the dark air.

He exhaled heavily in frustration, raking a hand through his slightly damp blonde hair and turning round. The rain soaked mournfully through his livery as he stood in the middle of the yard, eyes still fixed on the door which Thomas had shut, something sharp lodged between his lungs that suddenly made it hurt to draw a breath.

Jimmy simply couldn't understand what he'd said wrong. Thomas was difficult to read at the best of times, but when he cut Jimmy out, it was utterly impossible. Once again, Jimmy felt as though the real essence of their conversation had eluded him completely. It didn't matter how many questions he asked; when it came to Thomas, Jimmy suddenly felt as though he would always be completely out of his depth.

Before Jimmy had met Thomas, he'd prided himself on being superior and very perceptive about everything that was going on around him— but Thomas had the ability of making Jimmy feel as though he was six years old again and cupping melted snow in his numb hands.

More often than he liked, talking to Thomas made Jimmy realise how lost and alone he really was in the huge wide world; how little he understood; how impossible and unknown things really were.

With another heavy sigh, Jimmy leant back against the cold brick of the wall, tilting his head up to stare at the needles of rain falling endlessly from the murky, black sky and feeling them sting his cheeks. Guilt curdled in his stomach as he remembered how Thomas had been staring up at the sky when Jimmy had come out into the yard, before it had all somehow got muddled. He felt certain that it was his fault— but he was uncertain of how to fix it, because he didn't know what he'd done wrong in the first place. He wanted to ask Thomas a hundred questions, but he didn't know if the answers would even help now.

As Jimmy brushed a couple of stray strands of blonde hair out of his eyes, he suddenly caught a glimpse of silver out of the corner of his eye and looked down, seeing Thomas' lighter lying on the damp concrete amongst the stray wet leaves.

He just stared at it for a moment— the lighter that Thomas used every day, that he used to light the cigarettes he and Jimmy shared during breaks or on errands or in the servants' hall after hours— and then picked it up, sliding the smooth, cold metal through his fingers, mind suddenly made up.

Jimmy's hair was still damp from the bitter rain when he knocked hesitantly on Thomas' door, the cold lighter concealed in one hand, what was left of the strawberry wine he'd won yesterday at the fair in the other. He swallowed impatiently as he waited in the hallway, the lighter like a lump of ice in his palm. He felt his stomach twist at the sound of footsteps.

Thomas didn't say anything when he opened the door, but a flicker of surprise crossed his eyes like ripples in water.

"You left your lighter in the yard," Jimmy said uncertainly, holding it out.

"Thank you." Thomas' voice was unreadable, but he paused for a split second before taking the from Jimmy's outstretched hand, his pale fingers grazing the skin of Jimmy's palm as he did so. Even though he'd claimed he was tired and wanted to go to bed when he left Jimmy standing in the yard, he obviously hadn't even started getting changed for bed— he was still in his trousers and shirt, although he'd taken off the jacket and rolled the sleeves up. It should have made him look more relaxed, but his stance was rigid and emotionless. Jimmy had got so used to seeing him act differently that he'd forgotten that Thomas used to be like this all the time— and still was, with everyone else.

The thought somehow made Jimmy feel oddly grateful.

"Can…" Jimmy shifted uncomfortably, eyes flickering to meet Thomas' inscrutable ones. "Can I come in for a moment?"

It was a simple enough request in terms of words, but Jimmy felt as though it bridged a wide gap that hung heavily in the air between them.

Thomas' jaw clenched for a second, but then he nodded stiffly, stepping aside to let Jimmy inside before closing the door softly behind him.

Jimmy had only ever been in Thomas' room once before; the time he'd made the shaky offer of friendship he could never possibly have imagined would become so strong. The room looked almost exactly as it had that time, only it was more dimly lit in the darkness, softer somehow. The lamp on the desk giving the atmosphere an impression of warmth that had not been there on the day Jimmy had first visited, when Thomas' face had been bloodied and ruined with cowardice which was not his own.

It suddenly felt like such a long time ago with Thomas standing in front of him now, blood and bruises gone. His grey eyes were cautious and poignantly grey, and his face was a blank page, but it somehow touched Jimmy to see him standing there so simply in front of him, inky black hair softened from the rain, the sleeves of his powder blue shirt rolled up, his chest rising and falling gently in the silence that seemed to take up all the space of the room.

"Mr. Barrow— whatever it was that I said to upset you, I apologise," Jimmy offered sincerely, his voice uncomfortably loud in the heavy silence that filled the space between them. He raised his gaze to meet Thomas' grey one. "I don't know what it was, but I am sorry. Truly, Mr. Barrow."

"You didn't—" Thomas broke off, shaking his head and pushing a hand through his dark hair, fingers shockingly pale in contrast. The line of his jaw was sharp and rigid.

"Listen," Jimmy cut in bluntly, fiddling with the lid of the strawberry wine. "Can't— can't we just forget it all and drink this and ask our questions?"

For a moment Thomas merely regarded him silently, grey eyes as unreadable as ever— but then clench in his jaw relaxed slightly, and the line of his shoulders became less rigid, as though he'd heaved a sigh of relief.

"I suppose," he agreed, a hint of a smile pulling at his mouth even though his eyes were still stormy behind their opaque grey. But Jimmy knew Thomas; knew that he'd been forgiven whatever it was that he'd said which had offended or upset the other man. Relief washed over him, making him feel suddenly light and happy.

"Great," Jimmy grinned. He crossed the room and flopped down on the floor, sitting cross-legged with his back against Thomas' bed. "Otherwise you'd have owed me a pack of cigarettes."

"Shouldn't you be pleased about that?" Thomas raised his eyebrows slightly, but after a moment's hesitation, he sank down opposite Jimmy on the floor.

Jimmy fleetingly thought that the pale blue of his shirt suited him— it should have made him look colder, but it somehow made the pallor of his skin soft and real. Jimmy could almost see the faint traces of blue veins under the pale flesh of Thomas' exposed forearms from where the shirt sleeves were rolled up, where Jimmy knew that if he brushed his fingertips he would be able to feel the stammer of his pulse.

"I'd rather ask you questions than get free cigarettes," Jimmy replied honestly, unscrewing the bottle of strawberry wine.

"I suppose you get free cigarettes from me all the time, so it's not really much of a consolation prize for you, is it?" Thomas remarked coolly, but his mouth twitched slightly.

"It's not just that," Jimmy said, because it wasn't. But then he fell silent, because he found that his mind was suddenly too full of thoughts that were like mayflies; all blooming and dying before he could reach them.

There was a brief silence as Thomas lit a cigarette and the icy drizzle pattered against the darkened windowpane at the head of Thomas' bed, cold and unforgiving. Jimmy opened the wine properly and took a gulp of the cool, sweet liquid, letting it burn its way down his throat along with the faint trace of smoke from Thomas' cigarette.

"Thank you for bringing this up to me," Thomas said after a moment, slipping the lighter back into his pocket. He smiled slightly, holding Jimmy's gaze for a split second before looking away towards the window where little droplets of rain made tear-tracks down the glass.

Jimmy was content to sit in silence; silences with Thomas were rarely uncomfortable, merely companionable. Jimmy liked how Thomas didn't feel the need to fill every quiet moment with words if there was nothing to be said. Sometimes silence said more than words, anyway. Jimmy was more loquacious, tended to talk more— but it was never small-talk. Small-talk was words that meant there was nothing to say, and Jimmy had everything to say to Thomas.

"I'm going up to London tomorrow," Thomas said suddenly, looking up at Jimmy over the smoke of his cigarette. Jimmy didn't realise that he had been studying Thomas until the other man met his gaze.

"What?"

"The valet that went up with them has been taken ill, and so I'm to fill in," Thomas replied evenly, taking another drag of his cigarette.

"But what about our questions?" Jimmy blurted indignantly, setting down the wine.

"I'm sure they can wait until I'm back," Thomas said, smiling slightly.

"How long will you be gone?" Jimmy demanded, disappointment suddenly heavy in his stomach. He was fleetingly surprised at the degree of panic that was combined with disappointment at the thought of not being able to see Thomas and ask him questions for a few days— he hadn't realised quite how much he'd come to rely on it.

"Just until Monday evening," Thomas replied, exhaling smokily into the dimly lit room. "Not long."

Jimmy frowned, taking another gulp of the wine before offering it to Thomas, thoughts tangled.

"Anyway," Thomas said, taking a long swig of the wine and setting the bottle back down on the carpet between them, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Questions."

"Do you want to go first?" Jimmy asked, lifting the bottle to his lips and hoping that the wine would numb the sudden, inexplicable feeling of unease tugging at his chest that he couldn't quite place.

"No, I haven't decided on one yet," Thomas replied, resting his arm across his knee, cigarette held loosely between his fingers so that smoke unfurled in tendrils into the air around them.

"Me neither," Jimmy admitted, even though questions had been spiralling through his thoughts all day. "Let's talk about something else first."

"What do you want to talk about?" Thomas asked evenly, taking another long drink. Jimmy watched the muscles in his throat convulse as he swallowed.

Jimmy shrugged, brushing a stray stand of hair out of his eyes as he accepted another drag of Thomas' cigarette.

"How's your hand?" Thomas asked suddenly as Jimmy handed the cigarette back, feeling the slight warmth of Thomas' fingers against his for a split second. "I meant to ask yesterday."

"Take a look if you like," Jimmy replied carelessly, taking a brief sip of wine and holding out his hand for Thomas.

"Have you been redressing it like I told you to?" Thomas asked, tapping his cigarette over the ash tray.

"I forgot," Jimmy lied. "I don't think I'd know how, anyway. You should do it."

Jimmy couldn't tell if Thomas was sighing or simply expelling smoke from his lungs.

"Please," Jimmy added, not quite sure what made him say it.

"Alright, alright," Thomas relented, handing his cigarette to Jimmy and standing up, going over to the vanity where he pulled out a small first aid box. Jimmy watched with interest, wondering fleetingly what else Thomas kept in the vanity. Was it just hair pomade and old newspapers and cigarettes, or were there more unexpected things too? A journal? Novels? Objects which would help piece more fragments of Thomas together in Jimmy's mind?

"What else do you keep in there?" Jimmy blurted curiously as Thomas slid the drawer shut and sat back down opposite Jimmy on the floor. He deftly took the cigarette back from between Jimmy's fingers and took a brief drag before placing it back.

"Keep in where?" he asked casually through his exhale, opening the first aid box and pulling out a roll of bandage and a couple of safety pins. Jimmy watched his long fingers expertly measure out the material and carefully snip it to size.

"The vanity," Jimmy clarified. He unscrewed the lid of the strawberry wine and took another a long gulp as he watched Thomas prepare the bandage.

"Is that your official question of the day?" Thomas asked, eyes flickering up to meet Jimmy's, a touch of amusement colouring their grey.

"No," Jimmy replied, holding out his hand for Thomas to redress. The other man expertly began unwinding the previous bandage. He maintained a seamless professionalism, but Jimmy knew him better now; Jimmy knew that frequently, the more impassive Thomas appeared, the more he felt. The thought that he knew Thomas even just a little better filled him with inexplicable delight.

"Well," Thomas replied softly, gently dabbing at the wound on Jimmy's palm that was beginning to scab over. His gloved hand cupped Jimmy's, holding it still, and Jimmy could feel the contrast of leather and Thomas' the soft skin of Thomas' fingers against his own. "In that case, I'm afraid I won't answer you."

"What?" Jimmy exclaimed, making Thomas look up in mild surprise. "Why not?"

"I can't go giving too much of myself away now, can I?" Thomas replied, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he returned to his ministrations on Jimmy's hand. His fingers were long and pale compared to the golden brown skin of Jimmy's hand, and Jimmy watched them as they worked deftly, the warmth of their touch lulling him slightly— or perhaps it was just the effects of the wine.

For several moments, Jimmy just watched Thomas in fascination— the way his dark hair flopped across his forehead as he bent over Jimmy's hand; the way he frowned slightly in concentration; the way his lips were stained red from the wine; the way he kept his hands perfectly steady but Jimmy could see the sharp rise and fall of his chest where the buttons were undone, exposing a sliver of pale flesh.

"Did you do the dressings on your hand yourself?" Jimmy asked curiously, still watching Thomas' expert fingers winding the fresh bandage round his hand and up his wrist where Jimmy knew Thomas could feel the hint of his pulse. He fleetingly wondered how fast it was going.

Thomas looked up, surprise evident in his eyes. They were more unguarded than they had been before he'd started tending to Jimmy's hand. It was as if Thomas couldn't cut himself off from Jimmy when they were too close; couldn't keep himself completely unaffected by the proximity. The thought gave Jimmy an inexplicable sense of satisfaction.

"You know, after they let you out of hospital," Jimmy added, heart suddenly thumping faster in his chest. He could feel Thomas' fingers frozen in place where they held his wrist, and wondered if Thomas could feel the change in his pulse.

"Yes. After it had begun to heal properly," Thomas replied slowly, eyes not leaving Jimmy's. They were heavy and grey in the soft lighting of the room, like snow-laden skies. "It made me feel sick to look at it for weeks afterwards— months, even. Even now, sometimes, I still feel sick looking at it, thinking how many better men died in my place—" Thomas broke off abruptly, jaw clenched, as if he hadn't intended to say so much. The silence in the room was suddenly deafening.

Jimmy could feel hurt digging itself deep into his chest as he stared back at Thomas. He'd never heard Thomas talk about the war properly before— let alone about his feelings. Thomas looked horribly vulnerable, sitting there with Jimmy's hand held loosely in his, grey eyes completely exposed in the dull lighting of the room. Jimmy wanted to say something— anything— but he didn't know how to put it to words.

"I'd have been so scared," Jimmy said quietly after a moment, grasping Thomas' hand tightly in his for a split second and feeling the softness of Thomas' skin and the harshness of his leather glove crushed together.

Thomas' hand stayed motionless in his grasp, and his grey eyes were anguished.

"You shouldn't feel ashamed," Jimmy pressed urgently, holding Thomas' gaze.

Thomas looked away, the muscle in his jaw clenched. He disentangled his fingers from Jimmy's. "Well, I do."

"I wish I was brave like you," Jimmy blurted out, fiddling with the lid of the wine.

"I'm not _brave_," Thomas replied bitterly. His eyes met Jimmy's briefly, blazing in the pallor of his face.

"Yes you are," Jimmy insisted, because it was true. He looked up at Thomas. "I would have been too scared to do half the things you have."

"Perhaps that's a good thing," Thomas reflected cynically, making Jimmy frown.

"No, it's not," Jimmy shook his head insistently.

"What are you most afraid of, then? That can be my question for today," Thomas said suddenly, the tone of his voice lighter— but his eyes were still unflinchingly grey.

Jimmy frowned, considering. "I don't know," he said slowly, taking another swig of strawberry wine as he paused to contemplate, thoughts swirling. "When I was little, I used to be afraid of the dark. But now… I'm not so sure. I don't like not knowing things."

"You were afraid of the dark and now you're scared of not knowing things," Thomas commented slowly, smiling slightly.

"Why are you smiling?" Jimmy demanded— but Thomas merely shook his head and took another long gulp of the strawberry wine and setting it back down on the floor between them, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The wine had stained his lips, and the combination of them with his pale skin and inky black hair made him look strikingly handsome in the soft lighting of the room. Once again, Jimmy thought how ironic it was that all the girls who must have found Thomas handsome never stood a chance.

"I don't think I've felt real fear since I was younger," Jimmy continued after a moment, still frowning slightly as he cast his mind over his jumbled thoughts. "I suppose… I've never really had anything to fear because I've never had anything real to lose."

Jimmy blinked, feeling shocked at the words he'd just uttered; he had never realised that they were true until he'd spoken them.

"What makes you think you think you don't have anything to lose?" Thomas asked, grey eyes regarding Jimmy intently. "Sometimes you don't realise you have anything to lose— until you lose it."

Jimmy fell silent, frowning as more and more questions swirled through his thoughts like mist, clouding what he thought he knew with something that was impossible to define and capture. He tried to consider it, but the wine made his thoughts flow too fluidly and his cheeks felt warm.

"My turn," he decided abruptly, setting down the wine and looking up.

Thomas raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"To ask you a question," Jimmy clarified.

"Go on, then," Thomas said evenly, sliding his lighter from his pocket.

Jimmy paused for a moment, watching Thomas light another cigarette with his elegant fingers. Even although his thoughts felt tangled and he felt unnerved at how Thomas seemed to know him better than Jimmy knew himself, he felt inexplicably content in Thomas' warm, dimly-lit room, drinking the remainder of the strawberry wine and just being in Thomas' presence. There was something unaccountably pleasing about just being there. Thomas was simply sitting in front of him on the floor, arm resting across one knee, cigarette held loosely between two fingers, smoke curling into the dimly lit room that smelt of strawberry wine and Thomas' cologne.

Jimmy loved how Thomas seemed to relax around him— even with all his questions. He simply didn't seem to mind sharing himself with Jimmy. Whatever it was, Jimmy couldn't have been more grateful.

"I'm not sure what I want to ask yet," Jimmy admitted after a moment, trying to think clearly through the effects of the wine on his thoughts.

"Well, I'm in no hurry," Thomas said quietly, taking a drag of his cigarette. Jimmy watched the way his cheeks hollowed out as he inhaled the smoke into his lungs. He cast his mind around for a question; once more, although they'd been buzzing around his thoughts all day, now it actually came down to it, he couldn't narrow it down to one.

He wanted to know so much about Thomas; why he'd started smoking, what scared him the most, why he'd given up playing the piano, what he saw in Jimmy, what he thought of the world. Jimmy wanted to understand as much of the other man as he possibly could. He didn't know quite why it was so important for him to do so— all he knew was that it mattered more than anything he could remember. Taking another gulp of wine, he cast his mind back over the past few days, letting images of Thomas sitting with him in the swings at the fair and playing duets with him and bandaging his hand fill his mind.

"I think I've got one," Jimmy said suddenly, heart thudding in his chest as he looked up at Thomas.

Thomas exhaled smoke, and Jimmy waited for it to disperse into the atmosphere even though he could see the grey of Thomas' gaze clearly though it the whole time.

"Can you show me your hand?" Jimmy asked quietly, eyes not leaving Thomas'. He watched them flicker in surprise, sun poking out from behind the clouds. The room suddenly seemed very quiet and close.

"I can," Thomas replied after a moment, gaze intent. "Are you sure you want to see it?"

"Yes," Jimmy said decisively, because it was part of Thomas.

"It's not pretty," Thomas warned.

"Good," Jimmy replied, taking a sip of the wine. His heart thudded in his chest as Thomas slowly began to unbutton his glove; Jimmy could see his long fingers trembling slightly. "Does… does it hurt?"

Thomas shook his head. "Not anymore. It did at first, of course. But I deserved that." He eased the glove off and held his hand out between him and Jimmy, eyes holding onto Jimmy's with surprising strength.

Jimmy felt his heart slide sickeningly down to somewhere at the bottom of his stomach. The perfect, pale skin of Thomas' hand was warped and contorted with ugly red scar tissue. It was anguished and swollen in a ruptured circle like the petals of a distorted flower, awful and inescapable. Jimmy couldn't help wondering how it would feel; if it was hard and spiteful to the touch in comparison to the softness of Thomas' fingers.

"Can… can I...?" Jimmy whispered, glancing up to meet Thomas' gaze, which was painfully vivid in the dim lighting of the room. Mutely, he nodded, a muscle in his jaw jumping.

Hesitantly, Jimmy reached out, cupping the underside of Thomas' hand in his and then tentatively tracing his fingers around the wound. Much to his surprise, it wasn't rough to the texture; the scar tissue was even softer than the rest of Thomas' hand, so soft that Jimmy could barely feel it beneath his fingertips— it was only its bumps and contortions that made him certain it was there. Hurt lodged itself somewhere between Jimmy's throat and chest, so acute it could almost have been his own injury, and he gripped Thomas' hand tighter, feeling the flutter of his pulse under the fragile skin of his wrist that was usually covered by the glove. Tentatively, carefully, he stroked the skin where he could feel the pulse stuttering underneath, letting his fingertips trail around Thomas' wrist.

"Jimmy…" Thomas' voice was thick and quiet, and Jimmy looked up in alarm. Thomas' expression was pained; his pupils blown, his jaw clenched and rigid.

"Does it hurt?" Jimmy blurted in alarm, freezing in his motions.

"No… not exactly," Thomas replied quietly, looking away.

"It's so soft," Jimmy murmured, tracing the ugly lines and scars, feeling the heat of the blood beneath the skin's surface where Thomas' pulse fluttered. "I didn't think it would be." He stroked around the centre of the wound, where the skin was softest, most fragile. The room around them was suddenly so silent; Jimmy could hear Thomas breathing shallowly and the rain melting down the windowpane.

"Don't… don't you think it's disgusting?" Thomas' voice was uneven and hoarse.

No," Jimmy said simply, barely aware of the words he was speaking, too caught up with the silken, scarred skin under his fingertips and the warmth of Thomas's hand in his. There was something oddly captivating about it; Jimmy couldn't quite bring himself to let go. Here was where it had happened. The shot, the pain, the guilt. He stroked his index finger across the centre of the scar, hearing Thomas hold his breath. Jimmy curled his fingers more firmly round Thomas' wrist, feeling the pulse, all the skin that was usually covered by the leather of the glove.

He gently rubbed his thumb over Thomas' wrist, stroking the jumping pulse and trailing up to the outskirts of the wound, tracing the raised, soft scars. Jimmy could almost taste Thomas' cologne, the smoke between them. He softly mapped out the skin of Thomas' hand; where the raised lines of the scars overlapped into unmarked skin, where the scars overlapped each other. He tentatively stroked each one, feeling how it was subtly different to the last under the rougher skin of his own fingertips.

Jimmy fleetingly wondered if anyone else had ever done the same; if Thomas had allowed anyone else to touch him where he was most vulnerable, most real. Thomas had never seemed more real to Jimmy than he did in that moment, when Jimmy could feel the heat of the blood underneath the other man's skin and feel the softness of his scars and the unevenness of his pulse beneath his own fingertips.

"…Jimmy, please." Thomas' voice was completely uneven and unguarded, making Jimmy look up in alarm. Thomas' grey eyes were full of anguish, their pupils heavy and blown. Jimmy could see how flushed his normally pale cheekbones were, and there was a muscle jumping in his clenched jaw. He rarely saw Thomas' feelings for him so clearly, so simply, and it made him drop Thomas' hand in surprise, looking away as though he'd been burnt.

"I'm sorry." Thomas' voice was almost inaudible.

Jimmy shook his head, unsure of what to say. He suddenly felt awful. His hands felt cold and uncomfortable in his lap.

"Maybe you should go now. It's getting late," Thomas said, clearly attempting to sound uncaring— but Jimmy could hear the slight unevenness in his voice.

He looked up. "Mr. Barrow—"

"I have to get up early to catch the train to London, anyway," Thomas cut in quietly, and Jimmy nodded, not knowing what else to say.

Slowly, he got to his feet, running a hand through his blonde hair which was falling out of place. For a second, he raised his gaze to Thomas', but once more, it was broken into unpredictable, sharp fragments, and it cut into Jimmy, forcing him to drop his gaze.

"Goodnight then, Mr. Barrow," Jimmy said stiffly, hesitating for a second by the door.

"Goodnight," Thomas replied impassively, not looking up at Jimmy. Instead, he concentrated on lighting another cigarette, fingers shaking slightly as he fumbled with the lighter.

Jimmy left with a horrible, heavy feeling in his chest and the uneasy feeling that although he'd asked more questions since he'd entered the room, he'd left it with no more answers. His thoughts felt tangled and half-torn, like clouds clashing with the sun and contorting them into contrasts of light so brilliant he couldn't see and darkness that was completely impenetrable.

And he could still feel his fingertips tingling from where they'd traced the scars on Thomas' hand moments before, as though they had somehow scarred him too.


	7. Chapter 7

Jimmy barely slept. The rain which had dribbled listlessly down the window while he had been sitting with Thomas became torrential, battering against the windowpane like bullets. He tossed and turned restlessly to the sound of them all night, unable to find a comfortable position where he couldn't feel the heavy weight of guilty confusion in his stomach. His thoughts were like bullets too; conflicted, lost, too fast for him to catch.

No matter how hard he tried, his mind refused to succumb to sleep. Instead, Jimmy was left with a head full of smoke and Thomas and the feeling of the soft, raised scars under his clumsy fingertips. He felts as though everything had somehow been thrown off course and was suddenly all jumbled up, not at all as he'd planned— although he had no idea what he'd planned in the first place. No matter how much he thought about it, he couldn't understand it at all. In fact, the more he thought about it, the less sense it all seemed to make; it was as though the fragments he'd been piecing together in his mind to create a stained glass window were being worn away to heavy grains of sand, making Jimmy's head ache dully against the pillow.

Eventually, when the rain grew fiercer still and the hands on Jimmy's alarm clock read just after four thirty, Jimmy threw back the covers in defeat and stumbled out of bed. The cold air hit him in a rush, and he pulled on his robe clumsily before exiting his room as quietly as possible. He managed to feel his way along the pitch-black corridor and down the stairs, and after a couple of moments fumbling in the darkness of the servants' hall, lit the lamp on the table.

Dull yellow light ebbed out into the room as Jimmy slumped down into the nearest seat with a heavy sigh, pushing a hand through his rumpled blonde hair and groaning quietly. He didn't know why he couldn't sleep, why it was all _bothering_ him so much.

It wasn't just curiosity and questions that filled his thoughts any more; it was guilt and frustration and insecurity that all weighed so heavily in his chest and churned so agitatedly in his stomach that he couldn't sleep at all. His thoughts were too muddled, too jumbled up. It felt as though there was an impenetrable mist between himself and his thoughts, and he couldn't see them at all, couldn't understand what was happening.

Jimmy couldn't remember ever having felt so uncertain in his life. It simply wasn't in his nature; Jimmy had always been arrogant and sure of himself, and never gave a second thought to anyone else. But perhaps that was the difference; Jimmy thought about Thomas more than he'd ever thought about anyone before.

He didn't even know _why_. One moment, Thomas had just been another servant, and the next, he had somehow got closer to Jimmy than anyone else had. It suddenly struck Jimmy as ironic that in a sense, Thomas had got what he wanted. He was the person closest to Jimmy. The only person Jimmy really thought about. The only person Jimmy _cared_about. And Jimmy hadn't even noticed it happening. It was distinctly disconcerting to have been in one place and then suddenly in a completely different one without any recollection of the transition; as if the world had suddenly skipped from summer straight to winter, and all the flowers and blossom were coated in frost and the sun was melting the snow as it fell.

Jimmy shivered. The servants' hall was even colder than his room had been, but he found he couldn't bring himself to care. He was painfully awake and exhausted at the same time, and didn't know what to do with himself; didn't know how to make the thoughts and questions stop churning through his mind.

With an almost inaudible sigh, Jimmy rested his head on his arms and fell into a brooding stupor at the table, staring at the silent piano in the corner of the room. Blurry images flashed through his mind of him and Thomas sat side by side on the piano stool only a few nights ago, laughing and playing all the wrong notes. He could almost feel the smooth coolness of the piano keys beneath his fingers and the warmth of Thomas' leg pressed against his on the piano stool, the way Thomas' gaze lingered on him as he played.

Blearily, Jimmy wondered if Thomas had stopped playing when he injured his hand. He still felt determined to get Thomas to play again, to find out what exactly made him stop. Was it when he'd injured his hand in the war? Was it when he came to Downton and started smoking? Was it after his father sent him away? Jimmy knew that they were just temporary, individual answers— but at least they were answers, and he was desperate to find some answers, even if they weren't quite the ones he was looking for.

It was hard to find the answers you were looking for when you didn't even know what the question was. _A highly dangerous occupation_, Thomas had told him when Jimmy had said he was thinking. Jimmy suddenly couldn't help feeling how painfully right Thomas had been.

Jimmy was still slumped at the table, staring moodily at the sheets of music scattered before him when he heard the sound of footsteps in the hallway. He looked up blearily, eyes aching, hand half-tangled in his tousled blonde hair to see Thomas standing in the door way.

He was fully dressed and as immaculate as ever, his grey eyes sharpened with carefully-concealed surprise. He seemed very definite; a clear, concise full stop to the blurry haze of Jimmy's thoughts; an answer— only Jimmy didn't know to what question.

His heart was suddenly thumping uncomfortably in his chest as Thomas' whole stance seemed to stiffen slightly, and Jimmy could see the clouds slide across his eyes. The tension in the air was almost palpable; Jimmy could feel it making his skin prickle uncomfortably and his heart beat faster. It suddenly seemed like only moments ago that he had Thomas' hand in his and Thomas' cheeks were flushed and Jimmy could feel the warmth of his pulse fluttering under the fragile skin of his wrist. The heat of it made Jimmy's cheeks burn now, although he wasn't sure why.

"You're awake terribly early," Thomas commented evenly after several moments, in what was neither a question nor a statement. His voice seemed out of place in the intensity of the silence that hung heavily between them, not even broken by the raindrops being shattered against the darkened windowpane.

"Couldn't sleep," Jimmy mumbled, pushing his hair out of his face and rubbing his eyes tiredly. He felt caught off-guard, uneasy, uncertain of what to say. He knew he'd crossed a line again, but wasn't sure how bad the damage was even now that Thomas was standing right in front of him, painfully real. It suddenly seemed even more uncertain with him there, clouding Jimmy's thoughts like smoke into oxygen. "What— what are you doing up?"

"I'm catching the first train into London," Thomas reminded him coolly, sitting himself down in the seat furthest from Jimmy and setting a plate of toast and a cup of tea down on the tabletop. Without a further word, he opened his newspaper with the same surprisingly elegant fingers that lit cigarettes for Jimmy every day, and began to read. Jimmy could almost hear the tension in the air buzzing between them; it was so tangible that it felt as though the oxygen was drowning in it, and it made his head hurt and his stomach twist uncomfortably.

With every growing moment of silence, Jimmy felt increasingly agitated and uncomfortable. He was desperate to say something— anything— but he recognised how closely he was treading to the fragile line of their friendship, and didn't want to do anything to shatter it. He'd already thoughtlessly stepped too close to the line once again last night. Instead, he settled for watching Thomas with a mixture of intent curiosity and frustration as the other man drank his tea and picked at the piece of toast on his plate, eyes resolutely fixed on the newspaper in front of him. Jimmy knew that he wasn't reading it, though; Thomas' eyes didn't move, but stayed fixed on the same spot on the page. The thought that Thomas was just as affected by the uncomfortable atmosphere was vaguely gratifying.

Eventually, when Thomas had almost finished his tea and the quiet was ringing in Jimmy's ears, he could bear the silence no longer.

"You— you better think up some good questions while you're gone, Mr. Barrow."

Thomas' head snapped up instantly at the words as though he'd been waiting for them, expression completely unreadable. Jimmy felt distinctly uncomfortable under Thomas' scrutinizing gaze for a moment, before the rigid line of the other man's jaw softened subtly and his grey eyes flickered slightly.

"Same goes for you," he replied evenly after a moment. He took another sip of tea, fingers perfectly steady around the handle of the cup, and raised his eyebrows ever so slightly at Jimmy across the table.

Jimmy couldn't help grinning tiredly in return. "Try and stop me."

Thomas' mouth quirked slightly, but he didn't quite smile. Instead, he merely looked at Jimmy for a few moments before dropping his gaze back to the newspaper in front of him. This time his eyes flickered across the page, reading, and Jimmy felt relief wash over him; Thomas had relaxed, even if it was only the slightest bit.

They sat in silence again for a while, but the silence was much more comfortable this time. The rain continued to batter against the windowpane in icy gusts, and Jimmy fiddled with the scattered sheets of music in front of him, the notes blurring together on the paper to his aching eyes as he played out the melodies thoughtfully in his head.

"What have you got all the music out for?" Thomas asked suddenly several minutes later, making Jimmy look up in surprise at the sound of his voice.

Thomas kept his face impassively questioning as he drained the last of his tea, grey eyes lingering on Jimmy and the sheet music covering the table.

"I'm trying to decide which would be best to play as a duet when you get back," Jimmy admitted, pushing a hand through his tousled blonde hair again as he looked up at Thomas.

"You say that as if I have no say in the matter," Thomas remarked, eyebrows raised slightly. He set his teacup down on its saucer with a soft clink.

"Well, I'm sorry to say it, Mr. Barrow, but you don't," Jimmy countered seriously.

Thomas shook his head slightly, but Jimmy could see the smallest of smiles pulling at his lips which were red and still subtly moist from the tea. He folded up his newspaper abruptly and got to his feet, chair scraping across the floor.

"I'd better be going," he said curtly, buttoning up his jacket. "I'll see you in a few days, then, Jimmy." He paused for a second, eyes lingering on Jimmy for the smallest of moments before he dropped his gaze, jaw clenched softly.

"Goodbye," Jimmy agreed, a horrible, sinking feeling in his stomach as Thomas turned and made his way over to the doorway. "Remember to think of your questions. It'll— it'll be really boring without you, Mr. Barrow," he added on impulse, and Thomas paused in the doorway. He turned around, eyes catching Jimmy's. He smiled fleetingly, unguardedly, for a split second— and then he was turning back around and exiting the room, and Jimmy knew that, for now at least, he was forgiven.

Although perhaps, Jimmy reflected, in Thomas' mind it wasn't Jimmy who needed to be forgiven— it was Thomas himself. And Jimmy knew from experience that Thomas wasn't likely to forgive himself easily. Jimmy felt awful that Thomas was probably blaming himself for something wasn't even his fault in the first place, but Jimmy's.

With a small sigh, Jimmy turned back to the sheets of music in front of him, suddenly feeling exhausted. Outside, the rain was softening again, glossing the windowpanes in the cold November dawn.

Despite the relief of having parted with Thomas on relatively good terms under the circumstances, Jimmy's mood went rapidly downhill as the morning progressed. The day was bleak and bitter, and did nothing to improve his spirits. Even although the house was full of the usual bustle, it somehow felt uncomfortably empty without Thomas to run into in the hallways or catch his eye across the table in the servants' hall, and by luncheon, Jimmy was in a foul mood.

He had been told off twice by Mrs. Hughes for not paying attention to his duties, managed to offend at least half of the staff, and had even reduced one of the upstairs maids to tears. Avoiding everyone's glares at the table in servants' hall, he gulped down his bowl of soup as quickly as he could even though his stomach felt too knotted up to be hungry, and slipped out of the steamy airlessness of the kitchen and into the yard.

The silence of it should have been a relief, but it only made him feel more out of sorts. Mist swathed the yard in tendrils of ugly fog that seemed to hold every single leaf and branch in place as though it was frozen, completely motionless. It was too quiet; the sound of him scoring the match to light his cigarette with numb fingers was far too loud, and only reminded Jimmy of his solitude. It felt almost wrong to be on a cigarette break without Thomas; Jimmy wasn't sure he'd ever actually had one without him, since he'd only really taken up smoking as an excuse to spend time with the other man when their friendship had been shaky and new. Now Jimmy didn't need an excuse at all, but he still smoked with Thomas, and the smoke only caught in his lungs occasionally.

_I don't want to be the reason you're isolated from everyone else,_Thomas had said to him yesterday in the very same spot where Jimmy was standing now against the wall, smoke curling from his mouth. Jimmy hadn't realised it until now, but he _was_ isolated from everyone else— but not because of Thomas— because he simply didn't want to socialise with everyone else; it just seemed so pointless. Talking to Thomas had never seemed pointless, even when they hadn't been friends.

With a heavy sigh, Jimmy leant back against the wall, watching the smoke spiral out from his lungs up into the dense mist that hung almost tangibly in the bitter air of the yard. He couldn't remember having felt so churned up, so miserable, without really having any idea _why_.

A pang of frustration shot through his chest; Jimmy knew that the answers were there, right under his fingertips— and yet he couldn't see them for his life. It was like Thomas' leather covering the contorted, surprisingly soft skin of his palm; Jimmy would only be able to see it if he asked the right questions.

However, before Jimmy could brood on the matter any further, the yard door swung open and Ivy approached, smiling prettily at him through the icy mist.

"I thought you might like some company," she said eagerly, crossing the yard to stand beside him. Jimmy winced at the soft, flowery scent of her perfume that clashed with the grey smoke and the mist. "You seem awfully out of sorts today, Jimmy."

"I'm fine," Jimmy said tightly, tapping ash to the concrete at his feet.

"You can tell me, you know," Ivy pressed, her brown eyes full of sympathy. "After all, we are friends, aren't we?"

Jimmy made a non-committal noise that she could interpret in either direction.

"Well, why don't you come down to the village with me after supper? It's my night off," Ivy offered, nudging up closer to Jimmy in the sheltered space and making Jimmy's jaw tighten. It felt wrong, having her standing in the spot where _Thomas_ should be standing beside him, smoke and sarcasm curling from his mouth in equal measure.

"I might just get an early night, I'm bloody wrecked," Jimmy replied honestly, taking another drag of the cigarette. It felt strange having one all to himself rather than passing one backwards and forwards, sharing.

"Oh, please, Jimmy. It'll make you feel better. We can go for a drink or something— I haven't been to the pub for ages. I'm sure I can cheer you up…" Ivy trailed off suggestively, her cheeks reddening slightly. Jimmy looked away, dropping his gaze to the ground.

_Are you really saying you'd rather spend your time with me than with a pretty girl?_ Thomas' words suddenly echoed in his head, making Jimmy's thoughts churn uncomfortably. Jimmy didn't even have to choose now, because Thomas wasn't here anyway. And of course Jimmy would rather spend time with a pretty girl than his friend. It's what every young man would prefer. Perhaps he'd just never given Ivy the chance. Maybe spending time with Ivy would provide him with at least a few answers to distract him from the horrible, restless feeling inside of him.

"Alright, then," he agreed reluctantly, exhaling the last of the smoke from his lungs.

"Really?" Ivy exclaimed, eyes wide.

Jimmy nodded curtly, stubbing his cigarette out.

"I'll meet you in the servants' hall after supper, then!" Ivy called after him as he made his way back towards the door to the kitchen, head still aching with exhaustion and unanswered questions.

Spending time with Ivy couldn't have been more different than spending time with Thomas. Everything about her was different— her eyes were chocolate brown and naïve instead of icy and discerning, she chattered away all the time with nothing to say instead of succinctly in cryptic sarcasm, and above all, she was painfully easy to read.

Jimmy knew that Ivy fancied him, but even if hadn't, it would have been the easiest thing in the world to deduce; she hung on his every word and blushed when he looked at her, constantly complimented him, touched his arm too many times, and made far too many suggestions about meeting up again. She really couldn't have been_more_ different to Thomas— Jimmy knew that Thomas was in love with him, but if hadn't, he was sure it would be virtually impossible to guess.

Thomas challenged most of the things Jimmy said, treated him with nothing more than warm indifference, and never touched Jimmy's arm when he was talking to him. He concealed his feelings masterfully, to the degree that it was often easy for Jimmy to forget that they existed. The only times that Jimmy might have been able to guess were the times when he ignored Thomas' subtle warnings and got too close— like the time Jimmy had got him to bandage his hand for him or when they'd played duets, or last night, which still brought an uncomfortable, ashamed heat to Jimmy's cheeks for being so thoughtless. It was only at these moments that the cold grey armour of Thomas' gaze was broken down to heavy pupils and intensity; only at these moments that Jimmy could really see the depth of Thomas' feelings for him.

As Ivy giggled coyly and laid her hand on his across the pub table, it struck Jimmy once again how perplexing it was that the insincere charm and good looks which girls fell for so easily didn't appear to affect Thomas at all. He couldn't understand it at all; if Thomas could see so easily through the charm that could be turned on and off with the flick of a switch, why on earth did he feel the way he did towards Jimmy?

People had only ever paid Jimmy attention before because he was handsome or charming— but nothing more. Jimmy wasn't sure that he _was_anything more than those things. He'd never really wanted to be. But perhaps he did now. If it hadn't been for the occasional glimmers of how Thomas really felt towards him when Jimmy got too close, he wouldn't have believed it. He felt as though he should somehow be more worthy of Thomas' feelings; right now, he couldn't understand how Thomas was in love with him at all.

"… And then Mrs. Patmore said that _Daisy_ should be doing it, just because she's been here longer. It's ridiculous, I know you wouldn't stand for things like that, would you, Jimmy? You must feel so proud, being first footman. Of course, it is a shame for Alfred, but you really deserve it, you work so hard," Ivy gushed, taking another sip of her glass of ale and smiling warmly at Jimmy across the table of the pub.

Jimmy, already on his third glass, manufactured a smile.

"I think you should be promoted," Ivy continued, still smiling hopelessly at him. "I don't see why Mr. Barrow suddenly got to be under butler."

Jimmy's jaw tightened. "Mr. Carson must have thought he deserved it," he commented as indifferently as he could manage, taking another gulp of ale.

"Well, you deserve it more," Ivy smiled gushingly. "You're a much nicer person than Mr. Barrow will ever be, _and_you're a much harder worker."

"That's not true," Jimmy burst out, and Ivy blinked, looking at him in surprise. "I mean," Jimmy backtracked, trying to gather himself. "I mean— I don't work that hard."

"Oh, but you do!" Ivy insisted warmly. "Why else would you be first footman?"

Jimmy shrugged indifferently, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. "What about you?" he asked, wanting to steer the conversation in a different direction. "Do you want to be head cook one day?"

"Oh, no," Ivy shook her head, giggling. "I don't think I want to stay in service. I don't want to end up like Mr. Carson or Mrs. Hughes or Mr. Barrow."

"What do you mean?" Jimmy frowned, taking a long gulp of ale and setting his glass back down on the table.

"Well, they're awfully serious. I think all the years of hard work must make you bitter," Ivy said flippantly.

"Mr. Barrow is much nicer than everyone seems to think," Jimmy retorted, setting his nearly empty glass back down on the table. He felt a little light-headed.

"Well, you're far nicer than he'll ever be. I don't know why you're always jumping to his defence," Ivy blinked.

"No, you wouldn't," Jimmy snapped, pouring himself another glass.

"Jimmy?" Ivy appealed. She looked prettily hurt and bewildered.

"I'm not a nice person at all, Ivy," Jimmy blurted, taking a long gulp of ale and clumsily wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as though doing so would somehow erase the words that had spilled clumsily from it.

"Oh, but you _are_, Jimmy—" Ivy protested, looking scandalized.

"No, I'm not. And I don't know why you think I am," Jimmy said roughly, setting his glass back down on the table unsteadily. "Is it just because I'm_handsome_?" he spat out the word as though it was stuck in his throat.

"No, of course not," Ivy insisted, brown eyes wide.

"Then what is it?" Jimmy demanded. "Is it because I'm so _kind_ or so _thoughtful_? Because if you say it is, then that's not true, because I've never been either of those things and I never will be. I have absolutely no idea why anyone would like me if it's not for my _lovely looks_ or my _charm_," he spat, feeling sick.

"Jimmy, what ever is the matter?" Ivy exclaimed, her eyes round with worry.

Jimmy shook his head slightly, suddenly feeling unsteady. He wasn't sure why he'd suddenly started blurting it all out, why he was feeling so wound-up. The alcohol sloshing in his stomach suddenly seemed to be much more powerful than it had done a few moments ago.

"I just… I don't understand. I don't understand why…" Jimmy broke off, unfocusedly taking another gulp of ale. He suddenly felt vaguely guilty for having shouted at Ivy. "I'm sorry," he added curtly, although he didn't really mean it.

"It's alright," Ivy said at once, her brown eyes full of concern and confusion. "What is it you don't understand, Jimmy?"

"Never mind," Jimmy said, the two words slurring together slightly. He suddenly felt reckless, determined to do anything to try and find some answers. He didn't even care what they were any more, he just couldn't stand the complete miasma of uncertainty that shrouded his mind any longer. "Can we go now?"

"Of course," Ivy nodded, immediately getting up and tucking her arm through Jimmy's as they left the smoky warmth of the pub and went out into the contrast of the sharp, cold November night. Jimmy disliked the feeling of her arm linked softly through his, but he was unsteady enough on his feet not to protest.

"You know," Ivy began as they started slowly up the lane to Downton, "you can always talk to me if there's something troubling you, Jimmy. I'd be happy to help in whatever way I can."

"'M fine," Jimmy mumbled, stumbling slightly as the path narrowed.

"Are you really?" Ivy pressed, gently squeezing his arm.

Jimmy nodded wordlessly, focusing on walking as steadily as he could along the frosty path. Everything felt as though it was in the wrong place; as though all the pieces of a jigsaw had been forced together in the wrong places. He felt tired and dizzy and slightly sick, and didn't have the energy to try and shake Ivy off.

They walked in silence most of the way back to Downton under the starless sky. It was a bitterly cold night, and the frosty air stung Jimmy's cheeks as he stumbled along beside Ivy, wishing his thoughts would straighten themselves out and stop making his head throb.

"I should prefer spending time with you, shouldn't I?" Jimmy blurted out suddenly, when Downton was looming on the horizon and he felt marginally more sober.

"What do you mean?" Ivy frowned, coming to a halt.

"I should like spending time with pretty girls like you."

"Don't you?" Ivy blinked.

"Yes— yes of course."

"You don't do it very often. Perhaps if you did, you'd like it more," Ivy suggested hopefully. "How can you know you like something unless you try it? Quite often you don't realise how wonderful something it is until you try it, Jimmy."

Jimmy staggered to a halt, Ivy's arm still wrapped round his.

"Yes— yes, you're right," he slurred, heart suddenly thumping.

"…Jimmy?" Ivy's eyes were wide in the darkness.

He felt unsteady and reckless, determined to try and fill the answerless void in his mind with whatever he could. On impulse, he pulled Ivy closer and pushed his mouth clumsily against hers, stumbling slightly.

It felt wrong. Jimmy didn't know why; his head was too clouded with alcohol and desperate thoughts and too many questions; but he knew instantly that it wasn't right. Her mouth was too full, too sweet and wet, and her soft, flowery scent was overwhelming. The sloppy feel of her tongue against his made his stomach churn and were her hands held onto the small of his back the skin prickled uncomfortably.

He pulled away, heart thudding, thoughts in turmoil.

"Jimmy?" Ivy's voice was slightly breathless in the night air that was suddenly so cold it stung Jimmy's skin and made his lungs hurt.

Jimmy staggered backwards, his mind spinning. He could still taste her in his mouth, could feel the places on his back where she'd hung onto him, and it made his stomach lurch sickeningly. It was all suddenly too much; the endless questions drumming at his skull and making his head throb with uncertainty, the wet smudge her lips had left on his own, the exhaustion of being awake all night, the surprising loneliness, the way that her hands still tried to hold onto him, too innocent and unmarked.

He felt panicked, scared, utterly lost. Some half-drunken part of him had hoped that kissing Ivy would have made things clearer, but they were suddenly more jumbled than ever, so much that it choked him. Jimmy stumbled away, mind spinning nauseatingly, until he was leaning weakly against one of the trees and being sick, Ivy's anxious protests buzzing in his ears.

The following morning was, if possible, even worse than the previous one. Even before the end of breakfast, Jimmy was fervently wishing that the day was over. His head was thumping dully, his stomach was churning sickeningly, and he was wondering how on earth he was going to survive the next few days before Thomas returned. He had got up early to avoid Ivy, and slipped out into the yard to avoid the breakfast table, still feeling nauseated.

As he lit a cigarette with slightly shaky hands, he vaguely wondered what Thomas doing in London. He wondered if Thomas was sitting down to breakfast at the table in a foreign servants' hall, as immaculate and carefully emotionless as ever, inky hair smoothed back to show off the sharpness of his features. Was Thomas thinking up questions to ask him as he drunk his tea, or was he just reading the newspaper as usually did in the mornings?

Before, thinking about questions to ask Thomas had been something which had excited Jimmy and brightened his mood, even if it made him impatient at the same time, but it no longer seemed to have the same effect. Instead, if made him feel agitated and uncomfortable, and impossibly impatient for Thomas' return.

It was strange— before becoming friends with Thomas, Jimmy had been perfectly content in his own company, but now it was somehow never quite enough.

Jimmy was just finishing his cigarette when the yard door swung open and Mrs. Hughes marched out into the frosty yard. Jimmy winced slightly, bracing himself for another telling off, but Mrs. Hughes merely stopped in front of him, looking more flustered than angry.

"James, might I have a brief word?" she asked briskly as Jimmy stood up straight and dropped his cigarette to the ground, crushing it under the heel of his shoe.

"Certainly, Mrs. Hughes," he replied as politely as he could manage, trying to look as though he didn't have a splitting headache and uneasy stomach.

"I'm afraid I rather need to ask a favour of you, James," Mrs. Hughes said, sighing. "I know its short notice, but the party in London have decided that they need another valet for the ball tomorrow— I know you're not fully trained as one, but Mr. Bates is ill with a cold and Mr. Carson can't possibly go, so I'm afraid you'll have to do it."

Jimmy's heart was suddenly beating very fast. "London?"

"Yes, I'm perfectly sure you heard me correctly the first time. Now, there's a train leaving at twelve thirty. The chauffeur will be able to give you a lift down in an hour or so if you can manage to get packed by then?" she paused, looking questioningly at Jimmy in a manner which suggested he didn't really have a choice— not that Jimmy would have argued anyway.

"Of course," Jimmy agreed, heart still thudding in his chest with relief. He was going to get to see Thomas again. He had to bite back a grin at the thought.

"Mr. Barrow will meet you at the station in London to take you to the house," Mrs. Hughes announced. "Although I daresay, he'll have enough on his plate. Half the staff there have gone down with colds too."

"I'll help as much as I can," Jimmy said sincerely, making to go inside, but Mrs. Hughes stopped him, the sharp, efficient expression softened slightly.

"James— I know that you told me earlier nothing was the matter, but if you change your mind, you know where to find me," she said, her tone almost kind.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes," Jimmy replied hastily. "But I meant what I said. I'm absolutely fine, just a little tired."

"I hope you're not coming down with a cold too. You look awfully pale," Mrs. Hughes frowned. "Best get packing and off to London before it catches up with you."

Jimmy nodded, tucking his cigarettes back into his pocket and making his way hurriedly inside up to his room, bad mood suddenly forgotten.

Outside in the yard, the first few flakes of tentative November snow were beginning to fall.

**A/N: Just a quick thanks to you lovely people who left comments on the last instalment, thank you so much! I hope you all enjoyed this chapter… Feedback would be amazing. I'll update as soon as I can! 3**


	8. Chapter 8

The journey to London was quiet and cold. Jimmy spent most of it with his aching head leant against the cool glass of the window, watching the colourless November countryside roll by, cold and bitter under snow-laden sky. The initial thrill he'd felt at the prospect of seeing Thomas sooner than expected had subsided, only to be replaced with a distinctly apprehensive unease that Jimmy couldn't quite ignore. Although his eyes were still gritty with tiredness and his head throbbed dully from lack of sleep and too many questions, he somehow felt too wound-up to fall asleep.

The whole way, questions churned perpetually through his mind in an uneasy mix of things he felt he already knew the answer to, and things he never could. Drunkenly kissing Ivy had completely the opposite effect to the one Jimmy had hoped for; he'd somehow imagined that doing it would temporarily stifle the incessant questions that made his skull felt as though it was going to burst— but instead, it had simply added to them and made things seem more muddled than ever.

Jimmy had rarely cared enough about things before to regret, but, inexplicably, he regretted this. He wasn't sure why; he knew that he probably should regret hurting Ivy's feelings, but he found he couldn't really bring himself to care. It wasn't regret about the added uncertainty his actions had brought, or about Ivy's feelings— and yet, he couldn't erase the rare, heavy feeling of guilt that weighed down the space between his lungs and made it uncomfortable to swallow. Jimmy couldn't understand it at all.

All he knew was that it suddenly seemed more important than ever to see Thomas and ask him questions. Everything else had melted away and changed without Jimmy even noticing, and it was the only certain thing remaining. Jimmy knew that it was foolish, to hope that questions for someone else would answer questions of your own— but he couldn't help it any more. Jimmy felt that if he could just understand Thomas as he was so desperate to, just figure him out, then perhaps everything else would somehow make sense. It wasn't just that he wanted to understand Thomas any more; he needed to understand him. It suddenly felt as though everything depended on figuring him out.

Jimmy didn't realise that he'd let out a sigh until it misted up the glass beside him, obscuring the cold, darkening sky from view. At the same time as being desperate to ask Thomas more questions, a part of Jimmy felt inexplicably uncertain about seeing Thomas again, now that he was actually on the train. Although they had parted on relatively good terms, Jimmy still couldn't help but worry that the night before Thomas' departure might linger uncomfortably in the air between them. After all, he himself couldn't erase the poignant memory from his thoughts.

Every time he closed his eyes to try and succumb to sleep, he was suddenly back in Thomas' smoky room, Thomas' pulse stuttering hotly under his fingertips. Jimmy couldn't stop seeing the complete and utter pained surrender in Thomas' heavy gaze when he looked up, and every time he remembered it, it sent a fresh wave of shame through him.

He still couldn't believe he'd been so utterly thoughtless— but Jimmy found it so easy to relax around Thomas that he frequently forgot his more conscious line of thought and simply acted naturally. With Thomas, Jimmy was able to be completely himself— and perhaps that was the problem. Because more often than not, it seemed to end up with Thomas getting hurt, although of course, he rarely let on this was the case— it was only at times like the night before he'd left for London that it was so agonisingly clear.

Generally, it was just the faintest flicker of expression that most people would miss— but Jimmy knew him, and could read the tiny prologue of Thomas he'd been given like a book. He might not know where Thomas had gone to school or what had happened to him in the war or why he was in love with Jimmy, but he prided himself on being able to read Thomas' silent expressions; the way the corners of his mouth pulled up very slightly when he was trying not to smile properly, the way he raised his eyebrows coolly when he was amused, the way he clenched his jaw when he was uncomfortable, as though he was trying to crush the words he wanted to say.

But it wasn't enough. It was endlessly frustrating, because knowing little bits about Thomas only made Jimmy desperate to know more. It was like only being allowed to read the first page of a novel. He needed to understand why Thomas felt it necessary to stop himself smiling fully, or why he didn't just laugh when he found something funny, or just how much he didn't say that he wanted to. Jimmy fleetingly thought that knowing one little thing about Thomas was like seeing only one star in the night's sky— scintillating, but a complete misrepresentation of what the sky truly meant.

Jimmy couldn't help feeling that he could see no more of the stars in the sky than he could of himself. Every question he asked seemed only to create a hundred subsequent others that clouded all the possible stars completely, so that Jimmy felt as though he was stumbling through impenetrable darkness, unable to see anything at all.

You can't answer questions with questions, Jimmy, Thomas had once said to him. But Jimmy didn't know what else to answer them with any more.

As the train drew into the station in London, excited nerves curdled suddenly in Jimmy's stomach, erasing the prominence of the inexplicable guilt. He stood up as the train ground to a halt, pushing a hand through his slightly tousled blonde hair and picking up his suitcase from the luggage rack. Darkness had fallen completely outside, so Jimmy couldn't see if Thomas was on the platform or not; all he could see was his own reflection staring back at him. For a moment, he just stared back at the reflection; the typically handsome combination of blonde hair and blue eyes and the slightly bored distain

His heart was suddenly thumping, because for that split second, he felt as though he was simply staring at another stranger on the train. The fleeting thought that he knew no more about the man reflected in the black glass than anyone else in the compartment or on the platform outside sent a sudden and unexpected shiver of sadness through Jimmy. He'd never really stopped to consider who he was up until these last few weeks, and now that he had stopped, he wished he hadn't. He wished he'd kept moving, because it was easier not to ask questions that way.

Forcing his thoughts to the back of his mind, Jimmy began to make his way off the train, head aching with tiredness and unsettling questions.

Cold, sooty air stung his lungs as he stepped off the train and onto the London platform, shivering slightly in his coat. He hastily tried to gather his scattered thoughts as he began weaving his way through the bustle of people on the platform, eyes flickering between the crowds of people, seeking out Thomas' familiar cool disdain and angular features. The crowd was as all-consuming and swarming with people as his mind was with questions, and Jimmy felt equally and uncharacteristically lost in it.

He felt half like holding his breath and half like breathing a sigh of relief when he finally caught sight of Thomas standing near the entrance of the waiting room. It felt as though he was the most real thing Jimmy had laid eyes on in the past twenty four hours. Thomas looked exactly the same as the morning he'd left, and he was smoking steadily, smoke curling ambiguously around him as his cool grey eyes surveyed the busy platform with a mild disinterest.

"Mr. Barrow!" Jimmy called, heart suddenly thumping in his chest as he made his way through the crowd to where Thomas was standing. The other man glanced around at the sound of Jimmy's voice, exhaling slowly as Jimmy stopped in front of him.

"I just can't get rid of you, can I?" Thomas commented coolly— but the smallest of smiles was pulling at his mouth as he took another drag of his cigarette.

"Nope," Jimmy replied cheerfully. It was peculiar; he suddenly felt so overwhelmingly happy and relieved to see Thomas that everything else almost didn't seem to matter. All the worries that had consumed him fell away almost instantly, as irrelevant as the people hurrying along the platform behind him.

Thomas flicked ash to the ground and met Jimmy's gaze, grey eyes as startlingly perceptive as ever— yet there seemed to be a distance to them. It was as though there was a careful mist clouding his own expression, although he gave the impression of perceiving Jimmy's so clearly. Jimmy suddenly felt as though Thomas knew and understood everything that had been rushing through his head the last few days with that single look— and yet he could decipher nothing from looking at Thomas. The other man was as frustratingly inscrutable as ever.

"You look pale," Thomas remarked, breaking through Jimmy's thoughts. He was frowning slightly, and his eyes still lingering piercingly on Jimmy as though they could see everything. It wasn't a question, but Jimmy still felt as though he was required to give an answer.

"Oh, I'm fine," he lied, shifting awkwardly on his feet. Thomas surveyed him for a split-second longer, grey gaze like a spotlight that made Jimmy feel both uncomfortably exposed and privileged all at once. "Honestly, Mr. Barrow. Just a little tired from the journey."

Thomas raised his eyebrows slightly, but the piercing quality of his gaze softened slightly and he didn't press the point. Instead, he stubbed out his cigarette, exhaling the last of the smoke from his lungs. "Are you ready to go?"

Jimmy nodded as Thomas crushed the cigarette beneath the sole of his shoe and led the way through the bright, cold lights of the waiting room and out into the icy darkness of the street outside. The sky was too smothered with black snow-clouds to see the stars, and the lamps lining the street gave off an uneasy, greasy yellow glow that ebbed out into the shadows, casting them long and sad in the frost.

As they walked in silence along the pavement, Jimmy suddenly found himself uncertain of what to say. All the way to London, his head had been full of things to say to Thomas, but now that Thomas was actually walking alongside him, he couldn't find the words. Even although they were walking closely together on the narrow pavement, Jimmy suddenly felt the distance between them acutely.

"So," Thomas said impassively when, after several moments more of walking in silence, their footsteps echoing on the icy pavements, Jimmy still hadn't spoken. "How is Downton?"

A flurry of thoughts rushed through Jimmy's mind. "Don't ask," he said darkly, shaking his head wordlessly. "Just light a cigarette and tell me about London, Mr. Barrow."

Thomas raised his eyebrows slightly, but pulled a box of cigarettes and his lighter from his pocket with gloved hands.

"London is the same as ever. Far too full of money and poverty. The staff at Lady Rosamund's are boring," Thomas said flatly around the cigarette he'd placed between his lips, flicking the lighter to ignite it. The lighter flared for a moment in the darkness, a momentary second of illumination, and then it went black and Thomas slipped it back into his pocket with gloved hand. He took a brief drag of the cigarette and then handed it to Jimmy, who felt rather disconcerted at the brush of cool leather rather than warm skin.

"Tell me more about them," Jimmy said after a moment, savouring the exhale. He had been smoking the same brand on his own, but they somehow tasted so much better when they were Thomas' ones, not his.

"I'd rather hear what happened at Downton," Thomas said evenly, accepting the cigarette that Jimmy passed back to him and taking a long drag. Jimmy watched the way it made his cheeks hollow out, highlighting the sharpness of his bone structure in the dull light of the streetlamps. His eyes flickered up to meet Jimmy's, grey and uncomfortably far away. Jimmy suddenly felt as though they were hiding.

"Well, I'd rather forget about it," Jimmy said honestly, shuddering slightly. "Let's just say that I'm very glad to see you again, Mr. Barrow."

"Why, that was almost a compliment," Thomas quirked an eyebrow, looking amused, but something behind the surface of his eyes remained troubled.

"It was a compliment," Jimmy replied uncomfortably, neatly taking the cigarette from between Thomas' gloved fingers and taking a drag of it. "Smoking my own cigarettes isn't quite the same."

Thomas laughed, short and unexpected, the smile splitting across his face for a moment, all careful pretence lost for a split second— and it made Jimmy grin weakly in return. Thomas' smiles were like that; so unexpected and sincere that it was impossible not to respond to them, no matter how you felt.

"Well, I suppose I'm glad to see you too," Thomas said, still smiling slightly although his eyes were carefully reserved again. "It's not quite the same having no one stealing my cigarettes."

Jimmy grinned even more as he handed the cigarette back, deliberately blowing smoke in Thomas' direction— but his heart still felt heavy in his chest. He couldn't help feeling that something between them was slightly off; that the conversation between them was slightly stilted; that Thomas was just a little too cool and impassive for comfort. He was relating with Jimmy almost with the same careful indifference in which he related with everyone else, and it made it feel as though there was somehow a distance between them that had not been there before.

They walked in silence for a long while, the bitter air making Jimmy's cheeks smart as he matched his pace with Thomas. It was the same heavy coldness in the air that had stung at his skin that night with Ivy at the pub. He remembered how obvious she was, how painfully easy to read. Fleetingly, Jimmy wondered if Thomas could really see and understand as much as he gave the impression of doing when he looked at him— if Jimmy was really as easy to read as it sometimes felt when Thomas' gaze sliced through him, icy and discerning. It felt as though Thomas could see and understand what Jimmy could not in himself.

You're very quiet," Thomas remarked evenly, the measured quality of his voice startling Jimmy from the weight of his thoughts. He looked up to see Thomas' questioning gaze. Again, although it was a statement in technical terms, Jimmy felt as though it was a question for which he was required to provide an answer.

"Mr. Barrow, am I easy to read?" Jimmy asked suddenly, looking round at Thomas as they turned the corner and into a lane.

"Quite the contrary, I'm afraid," Thomas replied dryly. He frowned, observing Jimmy's expression intently, smoke spiralling from his mouth and from the cigarette between his gloved fingers. "Why do you look disappointed?"

Jimmy shook his head wordlessly, suddenly feeling more tired than ever. "I was hoping you'd have a better answer." He could feel his heart sinking in his chest. He knew it was irrational, but there was a part of him that had hoped Thomas could have told him all the things that he himself did not understand yet desperately felt he needed to.

"Well, that's the problem with questions, Jimmy. You don't always get the answers you want," Thomas said almost gently, the softness of his voice clashing with the sharpness of his eyes and cheekbones that stood out, stung pink from the icy night air. Jimmy looked at him for a moment, thinking how Thomas' eyes were almost blue in the darkness, and nodded wordlessly. His heart felt heavy in his chest, as though it were made of ugly metal.

They lapsed back into a slightly stilted silence as they neared the end of the lane and turned onto a secluded street, where stark trees lined the pavements. Their icy branches were encrusted in frost, and were reaching up into the unreadable darkness of the sky, beyond the flickering light of the street lamps. Jimmy suddenly thought how lonely they looked; forever trying to touch something that was always just out of reach.

"It's the house at the end," Thomas said coolly, startling Jimmy from his thoughts. Thomas was nodding in the direction of a tall, expressionless house near the end of the street as they crossed the deserted road.

"What are the servants' quarters like?" Jimmy asked, shivering in the thin material of his coat. His fingers were going numb from where they clasped the handle of his suitcase.

"Cramped," Thomas replied, suddenly sounding strained. He suddenly looked round at Jimmy with piercing grey eyes that seemed to slice right through the latter, catching on his lungs. The colour that was high on Thomas' cheeks from the biting wind suddenly seemed more noticeable against the typical pallor of his skin.

"Oh?" Jimmy frowned in confusion.

"Yes." Thomas' expression was as impassive as ever, but Jimmy could see him visibly swallow. "I'm afraid— I'm afraid that you'll be sharing my room. I know that it's not ideal, but there's nothing to be done. I do hope you aren't too offended by the thought."

At first, Jimmy thought that Thomas was being sarcastic, but then he looked at Thomas properly where they'd come to a standstill on the frosty pavement in the under the frail shadows of one of the poplar trees, and saw that he was being painfully honest. It was only then that the artfully composed and distant façade slipped a little, and Jimmy caught a fleetingly poignant glimpse of the anguished, helpless Thomas that he'd seen the night before Thomas left for London, and it made his metal heart hurt. The idea that Thomas thought Jimmy found his presence so disagreeable and uncomfortable only made Jimmy's heart heavier, weighing down on his lungs.

"Of course I don't mind," Jimmy said quietly, unsure of what to say.

Thomas dropped his gaze, the muscles in his jaw clenched, and Jimmy suddenly felt deeply uncomfortable and unsure of what to do next. He knew it was somehow his fault; that he needed to fix it. Thomas had once told him that being in love was like being scared, and Jimmy couldn't help wondering how it could possibly be worth feeling scared all the time for something that was always going to be just out of reach, just like the sky for the lonely branches of the poplar trees.

"Mr Barrow— I'm sorry—" Jimmy blurted out, unable to stop himself. He knew he was probably saying the wrong thing, but he had to say something, had to let Thomas know that he wasn't to blame. "I know that I've already said so, but I truly am— the night before you left— I shouldn't have been so thoughtless—" Jimmy trailed off uncertainly, heart thudding in his chest. He suddenly got the sinking feeling that once more, he'd said utterly the wrong thing and just made the whole situation worse.

The words crushed the oxygen out of the air between them, suddenly making it feel very still, as though the frost had frozen the air in place as well as the leaves and the branches on the trees.

Thomas' expression had become rigid, all white lines and angles.

"I'm sorry," Jimmy added, his voice feeling uncomfortably blunt in the silence.

"You have nothing to apologise for," Thomas replied, sounding utterly strained.

"No, I do, and I really am sorry—" Jimmy blurted out. "I didn't—"

"Please. Let's not speak of it, Jimmy," Thomas said tightly, his eyes painfully emotionless. Thomas so rarely said 'please' about anything, that Jimmy immediately ceased to speak.

Thomas' eyes were like lakes that had frozen over, obscuring everything under the surface from view— but they still sliced through Jimmy so piercingly it hurt. Jimmy watched the way that Thomas' hands shook slightly around his cigarette, and wondered fleetingly how much courage it must have taken for Thomas to be his friend every day. Thomas had asked Jimmy why they were friends, but Jimmy didn't know why Thomas was friends with him. He was tactless, thoughtless and shallow, and always seemed to end up inadvertently making things twice as difficult for Thomas.

"Of course," Jimmy said quietly, much too late. He was watching the way the muscle was still clenched in Thomas' jaw as he exhaled sharply, gaze not quite meeting Jimmy's. The only thing Jimmy knew to do whenever he stumbled clumsily across the fragile line of their friendship was to change the subject. It was pointless talking about it, because Thomas always clammed up completely, and the bottom line was that their friendship was founded on things they were both ashamed of.

"What— what do you say we meet after we've finished tonight for a cigarette?" Jimmy offered tentatively after a moment watching Thomas smoke, the muscles in his neck taught and clenched. "I know that you've only been away a couple of days, but it feels like forever. And you can tell me all the questions you've thought of."

"You and your questions," Thomas shook his head slightly, but the tone of his voice wasn't as strained as it had been a moment ago.

"But you did think of some, didn't you?" Jimmy tried for a grin.

"One or two," Thomas replied evenly. A small smile was tugging at his mouth, but it still didn't quite melt the careful disinterest in his gaze. "I take it I don't even need to ask whether you did."

Jimmy grinned weakly, but his heart still felt uncomfortable in his chest.

By the time Jimmy had finished for the evening and had made his way out to the back yard to meet Thomas, he was absolutely exhausted. His thoughts were in tangles and knots and he couldn't decide whether he felt happy about seeing Thomas or guilty about how clearly difficult he'd made things between them. The lack of sleep and alcohol from the night before had caught up with him almost immediately after he'd left Thomas to go and get changed when they arrived at the house, and it hadn't improved as the evening progressed. He had barely felt aware of the new surroundings and people all night; he was too caught up inside his head to think straight.

The frosty night air was sharp and searing as Jimmy stepped out into the yard and closed the door carefully behind him, but it failed to break through the cloud of exhaustion and jumbled thoughts.

Thomas was already leaning against the wall, smoking silently in the darkness. He was still in his valet's uniform, but he'd loosened his white bow tie and his pomaded hair was beginning to fall across his face, jet black in contrast to the pallor of his skin that was illuminated by the dull glow of the street lamps outside the property. Jimmy suddenly couldn't help thinking that Thomas was like an ellipsis; unfinished, unwritten, unknown.

He glanced up, grey eyes poignantly indifferent as Jimmy leant against the hard, cold wall beside him with a heavy sigh that unfurled into the bitter night air.

"You look exhausted," Thomas remarked dryly around the cigarette in his mouth. He withdrew it, letting a plume of smoke coil up into the black air. Jimmy watched it mingle with the snow-laden cloud and evaporate into nothingness, leaving no trace of it ever having been breathed.

"I'm fine," Jimmy lied, rubbing a hand across his gritty eyes that felt as though they were swollen with seeing things he couldn't understand. He couldn't remember having felt so exhausted in his life. It was inexplicably tiring to constantly be searching for something with no idea of what it actually was; to be asking questions and questions and questions and finding no answers.

Thomas didn't say anything, but he held out his cigarette, bridging the gap between them.

Wordlessly, Jimmy took the cigarette and shivered slightly at the brush of their fingers even though Thomas' fingers were soft and warm, just like they had been on the night before Thomas had left for London. Jimmy fleetingly found himself wanting to touch the scars on Thomas' palm, just to remind himself that they existed— but then the contact was gone and Thomas was putting his hands in the pockets of his jacket and Jimmy's fingers felt cold.

"Thanks," Jimmy muttered belatedly around a cloud of smoke.

For a few moments, they stood in silence under the snow-laden sky. Jimmy could almost taste the promise of snow in the air along with the smoke that warmed his lungs and stung them at the same time.

"So, are you going to ask me a question?" Jimmy asked after a while, looking round at Thomas as he handed back the cigarette, feeling the split second of warmth before it was gone again, just like snow melting.

Thomas tilted his head to one side, inhaling deeply so that his cheekbones looked sharper than ever. "If you like," he shrugged non-committally.

"Why else would I have asked?" Jimmy asked, shuddering slightly as a particularly icy gust of wind swept through the yard, trying to shake the snow clouds so that a few, minute flakes of snow would tumble from their upside-down depth— but the sky remained empty.

For several moments, Thomas didn't say anything. His elegant fingers were perfectly steady as he took another drag of the cigarette and looked up.

"What's troubling you, Jimmy?" he asked quietly, eyes catching intently on Jimmy's so that the latter suddenly found himself unable to look away.

"Why— why do you assume that anything is troubling me?" Jimmy countered uncomfortably, but he could feel the sudden thump of his heart behind the confines of his ribs, and the guilt which had been lodged between his lungs ever since the night with Ivy was suddenly more poignant than ever.

Thomas didn't say anything, merely continued to look at Jimmy as he lifted the cigarette to his mouth and inhaled slowly. His eyes were utterly unreadable, yet gave the impression that their grey could read everything in sight.

Jimmy sighed, shaking his head slightly in resignation. He dropped his gaze, raking a hand through his blonde hair as he stared at the ground. The ash from Thomas' cigarette fell to it in tiny little embers, lost on the vast coldness of the concrete at their feet.

"Do you ever get the feeling… I don't know… do you ever get the feeling that you don't really understand anything at all?" Jimmy asked after a few moments, looking up at Thomas through the smoke that curled through the air between them.

Thomas regarded him carefully for a moment, grey eyes surprisingly vivid in the darkness. "Yes," he replied simply and unexpectedly after a moment. He took a deep drag of his cigarette, cheeks hollowing around it.

For a while, they stood in silence, passing the cigarette between them. It would have been more straightforward if Thomas had just lit another one, but Jimmy liked sharing the same one— it felt more personal, as if Thomas was somehow, subtly, sharing himself, trusting himself with Jimmy by doing so.

"But I think, sometimes…" Thomas broke off briefly taking the cigarette from his mouth and handing it to Jimmy, smoke spiralling from his mouth in the darkness. "Sometimes you just have to accept that you can't understand everything all at once. You don't need to find everything out at once, you just need to let it happen. It can all wait. What's the hurry?" His tone was uncharacteristically soft and measured, and Jimmy looked up at him in surprise, letting the words sink through the mist of tiredness shrouding his thoughts.

He looked at the way Thomas' soft black hair fell across his forehead, the way his grey eyes were startling and almost luminescent in the shadows, the way smoke curled enigmatically from his mouth like words that weren't being spoken, and Jimmy suddenly couldn't help smiling.

"What?" Thomas frowned, tapping ash to the ground with an elegant flick of his fingers.

"I don't know," Jimmy shook his head, still smiling. He was exhausted and his head ached and his thoughts were scribed in a language he couldn't read, but suddenly, he felt happier than he could remember having felt in a long time, just standing and smoking with Thomas like they did every night. Only this time it was different somehow— and not just because they were in a different city where the stars weren't in the sky but were captured in lamps lining the bleak streets. Jimmy could feel the happiness welling up inside of him, crushing the guilt and the confusion until it was all he could feel for that moment.

He wanted to say something, to say how happy he suddenly felt— but he didn't know how to put it into words. The feeling was something which couldn't be trapped by words, it was indefinable and wonderful, and Jimmy couldn't explain it to anyone, best of all, let alone, himself. But maybe, somehow, Thomas understood— because he was smiling back at Jimmy.

It was a rare, tentative, real smile, and it broke away the careful clouds across Thomas' gaze, until Jimmy could see him so clearly it almost hurt.

And for once, Jimmy felt as though all the questions could wait— even if it was just for a moment.


	9. Chapter 9

When Jimmy awoke, it was dark and silent. He could vaguely taste smoke and cologne in the unlit air, and the quality of silence he woke up to was somehow subtly different than usual; as though he wasn't the only one there to ensure its presence. It took a moment for the remnants of unconsciousness to fade and for Jimmy to remember where he was. The events of the past few days rushed through his head, filling it with questions, and he opened his eyes blearily only to be met with a subtly lighter shade of darkness.

It was still hours from dawn; the only variation in darkness was the streetlamps that flared outside on the dark London street, ebbing through the thin material of the curtains. The air against Jimmy's face was sharp and cold in comparison to the cosy warmth under his blankets, and his eyes ached with tiredness— yet he felt inexplicably content, as though he'd slept soundly for the first time in weeks. There was no lingering unease from unfinished dreams, no tight knot of agitation in his stomach. With a soft sigh that seemed to fill the darkened room, Jimmy rolled over onto his side, pulling the blankets more snugly around himself.

His thoughts were still blurred from sleep— an anthology of questions and their possible answers— but as his eyes grew accustomed to the faint light, Jimmy was able to make out the vague outline of Thomas in the bed opposite.

The other man was perfectly still, eyes shut serenely as though he was as composed and unruffled in his dreams as he was in wakefulness. The blankets were pushed down a little, so that Jimmy could see the pale sliver of Thomas' chest at the neckline of his undershirt, and the way his arm stretched across the mattress beside him, glove off, palm turned upwards— almost as though he was waiting for someone to catch hold of it.

Jimmy suddenly couldn't help thinking how completely and wonderfully unguarded Thomas looked, simply lying there with his eyes closed and his chest rising and falling softly. It was only then that Jimmy realised just how cautious Thomas was in wakefulness; every action was reserved and careful, never impulsive. When he was awake, Thomas only ever disclosed a minute fraction of himself… Jimmy thought that he was rather like a black and white film at the pictures— artful to watch, but ultimately a misrepresentation of the truth because it was only arranged for the desired effect.

Jimmy wasn't sure why, but he couldn't quite bring himself to look away. It was so rare to see Thomas so simply; without the façade and the sarcasm and the cool disinterest. He somehow seemed more real to Jimmy than he ever had before; it felt as though he was tantalisingly close to the answers of the questions he'd been asking for weeks. Like this, Thomas was more like half an answer— rather than lots of little broken pieces of different ones. His face was tender and poignant, his chest rising and falling softly in the darkness. Jet black hair flopped across his closed eyes, and he somehow gave the impression of being both far away and closer than ever before. Jimmy couldn't help wondering that someone who was only a few feet away could simultaneously so far away; if Jimmy reached out, he could almost touch the bed that Thomas was sleeping in— and yet Thomas himself seemed to far away, because Jimmy was so far away from understanding him.

The man lying there, breathing softly in and out, was more of a mystery to Jimmy than anything, and seeing him like that, so simply, reminded Jimmy not only of the extent to which he didn't know Thomas— but also just how much he desperately wanted to know him. It was bizarre, to feel so close to Thomas and yet so far away at the same time. But Jimmy suppose that was sort of like Thomas; full of contradictions. Everything was somehow just so much simpler when he was with Thomas— and yet so much more complicated at the same time. When he wasn't with Thomas, the questions swamped his mind and crushed the air from his lungs, but when he was, more and more and more were created.

These days, Jimmy was used to waking up with a head full of questions that desperately needed to be answered, but when he could unquestionably see Thomas in the bed across from his, they somehow seemed less urgent. Instead of feeling the desperation to get up and find Thomas and ask him questions, Jimmy simply watched Thomas' chest gently rising and falling until his own eyelids were drooping and he was drifting back into sleep as the lamps outside on the street continued to flare, trapping the light of the stars. He knew the questions would still be there when he woke up.

When Jimmy awoke again, it was no longer dark and silent. The lamp on the vanity was lit, and he could dimly hear the bustle of the kitchen down the hall. He blinked blearily, rubbing his eyes, and Thomas swam blurrily into view. The other man was sitting fully-dressed on the bed opposite, mending the hemming of a dinner jacket. His long, pale fingers worked skilfully with the needle and thread, and his face was a picture of pale composure— he could almost have been a different person to the one Jimmy had watched breathing softly in and out in the darkness only a few hours before.

"'Morning, Mr. Barrow," Jimmy mumbled sleepily, his voice feeling rough with tiredness. He leant up in bed, letting a hand tangle in his tousled blonde hair as he looked over at Thomas, who had glanced up at the sound of Jimmy's voice, his grey gaze careful and unruffled— although his hands stilled on the material.

"Good morning," Thomas replied evenly before dropping his gaze back to the dinner jacket. Jimmy couldn't help noticing that he was slightly paler than usual, and there were heavy, dark circles weighing down his grey eyes as though he'd been awake for hours. Jimmy frowned slightly, wondering why Thomas looked so tired— he'd seemed to be sleeping peacefully when Jimmy had been awake earlier, but he supposed that was just a small sliver of the night. He wanted to ask Thomas, but he wanted to save his questions for when he knew Thomas would answer them properly.

"Pass us a cigarette," Jimmy said instead, rubbing his eyes tiredly and trying to push his dishevelled blonde hair into some kind of submission.

"Cigarettes before breakfast?" Thomas raised an eyebrow— but he deftly threw the packet of cigarettes that had been sitting on his dresser to Jimmy. "Whatever would Mr. Carson say?" he said sardonically.

"Mr. Carson isn't here," Jimmy mumbled around the cigarette, fumbling clumsily with Thomas' lighter. "Thank god."

"Amen to that," Thomas intoned, his expression as unreadable as ever.

Jimmy smoked in an odd silence for a few moments as Thomas continued to work on the hem of the dinner jacket. His posture was tense and Jimmy could see the muscles in his jaw were clenched. His inky black hair was slicked back seamlessly, accentuating the sharp impassivity of his expression, which was almost painful in comparison to the unguarded softness Jimmy had seen on it when the world outside was silent and only the lamps lit the street. He had never realised before just how uncomfortable if looked until he'd seen the contrast.

"So, what's happening today?" Jimmy asked after a while, when Thomas continued to sew in silence and didn't acknowledge Jimmy's wakefulness further. Jimmy leant back on his arms, blowing lazy rings of smoke up into the air as he watched Thomas' fingers deftly work the needle and thread, his expression blank. He fleetingly wondered if Thomas was as much of a mystery to himself as he was to Jimmy.

"We're to help them prepare the house fro the ball this evening," Thomas said evenly without glancing up. His voice was slightly rougher than usual, as if he'd been smoking frequently. "And as well as performing our valet duties, we're also serving at the ball this evening thanks to the footmen who went down with colds."

"What about this afternoon?" Jimmy asked, carelessly knocking ash into the already full tray on the vanity. He suddenly remembered that it hadn't been so full when he'd gone to sleep the night before, and he couldn't help wondering if Thomas had been sitting awake and smoking in the night.

"There's nothing I've been told of," Thomas replied, carefully snipping the fraying end of the thread he was darning the dinner jacket with and still not meeting Jimmy's gaze.

"Well, what do you say we go out into London?" Jimmy asked suddenly, exhaling impatiently to get the smoke out of his words. He sat up properly, gaze fixed on Thomas. "I've never really had much chance to see it before."

Thomas hesitated for a split second, fingers pausing on the stitching.

"I'll have to check that we can be spared," Thomas responded evenly, glancing up so that Jimmy caught a flash of poignant grey and bloodshot eyes.

"We can ask our questions then," Jimmy said, grinning. He pushed a hand through his tousled hair and took another lazy drag of the cigarette, eyes still fixed on Thomas who had returned to the sewing. "Seeing as we've not really had the chance the past few days. I think we're owed three each, including today's ones."

Thomas finished the last stitch and glanced up fleetingly, an unconvincing smile doing nothing to hide the stiffness of his expression. He had looked so peaceful while he was asleep, but now Jimmy could see the prominence of the dark circles under his grey eyes as though Thomas hadn't slept at all. Even although the other man maintained his unruffled, measured expression, Jimmy could clearly see the shadows of sleeplessness that hollowed his face and the increased pallor of his skin.

"Did you sleep quite well, Mr. Barrow?" Jimmy asked, feeling uncomfortable just for asking the question.

"Perfectly, thank you. I have to return this to laundry before the day starts properly," Thomas said coolly, carefully folding up the dinner jacket and any doubts that the subject wasn't closed. "And I expect breakfast will be served shortly."

"I'll come with you," Jimmy said, stubbing out his cigarette in the ash tray on the bedside table and pushing back the blankets. The cold morning air hit his bare chest like a slap and he shivered as he looked around for his robe, pushing his ruffled blonde hair out of his eyes. As he did so, he suddenly caught sight of the expression of Thomas' face. It was stiffly expressionless, and his grey eyes didn't quite meet Jimmy's gaze. Jimmy swallowed uncomfortably, suddenly feeling horribly aware of his bare chest as Thomas held out the navy blue robe which Jimmy had carelessly tossed onto the vanity the night before.

"Thanks," he mumbled, taking it and feeling a split-second brush of Thomas' fingers against his own— but then the contact was gone and Thomas abruptly turned away, putting the needle and thread back into the sewing box. The air between them suddenly seemed too thick to move in.

"I'll see you at breakfast," Thomas said in a tone which was so tight it almost crushed the words. He picked up the box from the vanity and made his way to the door as Jimmy pulled on the robe, tying it around his waist with slightly shaking hands. Thomas closed the door behind him with a snap, leaving Jimmy feeling a familiar prickling sensation of anger at his own carelessness.

As it turned out, they were able to be spared for a few hours in the afternoon provided they had finished the preparations for the ball. Jimmy hurried through his morning chores with an increasingly familiar excitement bubbling in his stomach. He'd never really known the feeling before he'd become friends with Thomas; nothing had held much appeal or seemed particularly important— there was nothing Jimmy really wanted to do because he hadn't cared. But he cared now; he cared about asking questions— asking Thomas questions.

Time seemed to drag on endlessly until Luncheon, and even then, it seemed to take forever until everyone had finished their bread and onion soup. Jimmy jiggled his legs up and down impatiently under the table and gulped down his soup far too fast so that it burnt his throat. He kept managing to catch Thomas' gaze across the table and grinning, and although the dark circles were still heavy under Thomas' gaze, he smiled genuinely back. Jimmy felt tremendously relieved that the other man seemed to have forgiven his carelessness that morning; but he supposed that that Thomas must be used to having to forgiving his thoughtlessness.

After changing out of his livery once Luncheon was over and everyone had returned to their jobs, Jimmy donned his hat and scarf and hurried back down to the servants' hall to meet Thomas. The other man was already waiting for him by the back door in his dark coat, hat and navy blue scarf that somehow made him look handsome and inscrutable. He looked up when Jimmy approached, and when he smiled briefly— just a brief, perfunctory smile— Jimmy was surprised at the inexplicable happiness he suddenly felt.

"Ready?" Thomas asked, pulling on his black leather gloves and opening the door.

Jimmy nodded, and followed Thomas out of the back door and onto the icy London street. The world was full of grey; stark and beautiful in comparison to the cosy warmth of the servants' quarters. Icy cold stung Jimmy's skin and the sky overhead was heavy with a grey that seemed almost tangible in the bitter air, as though the snow bruising the November cloud had already begun to fall without being seen.

"Do you think it's going to snow?" Jimmy wondered, staring up at the incomprehensibly vast and bitter sky as they made their way down the colourless street. It seemed to press down on their shoulders, yet Jimmy couldn't reach up and touch it no matter how high he jumped. It was overwhelmingly close and far away at the same time, and reminded him of lying in bed earlier that day, watching Thomas sleeping in silence.

"Perhaps," Thomas mused, sparing a fleeting glance at the sky before lighting a cigarette. The smoke from it clouded the icy air that was already stinging his pale cheeks a faint shade of pink. He took a long drag of the cigarette, cheeks hollowing as he sucked the smoke into his lungs, and then he handed it over to Jimmy.

"Thanks," Jimmy said, feeling an odd pang of something that was a lot like disappointment as he felt the brush of cool leather rather than warm skin against his fingers. "Where shall we go?" he asked, looking round expectantly at Thomas.

"I'm happy to follow you," Thomas replied evenly. He glanced up briefly at the sky, exhaling smoke so that it curled coldly up into the icy cloud as though there was no space between the cloud and their breaths. Jimmy thought that he looked like a still from the pictures; the flawless angle of his jaw and the smoke curling coldly from his lips that were dark red in contrast to the pallor of his face and his surroundings, as though he'd been drinking wine and somehow got lost in a black and white world.

Jimmy suddenly couldn't help wondering why he so desperately wanted to understand Thomas. He didn't understand anyone, not even himself, but that had never bothered him before. Why, out of all the strangers passing them by on the wintry London streets, was Thomas the only one Jimmy cared about knowing? Was it because he had been forced to alter his feelings of the other man time and time again? Was it because he felt somehow indebted to Thomas for saving him all those months ago? Or was it because he was the person who'd somehow got closer to Jimmy than anyone before? Maybe it was none of those things, but a mismatched combination of them along with something indefinable and inexplicable— like the pure, overwhelming happiness Jimmy had experienced the night before, standing in the smoky yard and staring up at the icy London sky.

"You're awfully quiet," Thomas' voice shattered Jimmy's thoughts, and he looked up to see Thomas looking questioningly at him, eyes impossibly grey against the frozen, overcast streets. Jimmy was suddenly struck once again by how utterly different walking with Thomas was to walking with Ivy. Thomas noticed everything but voiced very little, whereas Ivy noticed very little and voiced everything.

"I was thinking," Jimmy shrugged, scuffing his shoe against the side of the pavement.

"I've warned you about that before," Thomas quirked an eyebrow.

"Well, I wish I was in control of it," Jimmy replied with feeling, taking a drag of the last of the cigarette Thomas had offered him and casting it to the frozen pavement. He stuck his hands in his pockets, matching his pace with Thomas. The streets were relatively quiet; it was a bitter afternoon, with grey air that stung at Jimmy's skin and made his eyes smart with the cold. He quite liked the quietness of it, though— it reminded him of walking with Thomas back at Downton.

"What do you mean?" Thomas frowned.

"I'm too impatient to think about things properly," Jimmy sighed, although he hadn't really meant to say it out loud. "I can't… I can't understand my own thoughts."

"Who does?" Thomas retorted, flaring his lighter and pulling out another cigarette.

"Do you ever think it might be easier to understand someone else's?" Jimmy asked curiously, watching the way Thomas' gloved fingers expertly lit it and slid the lighter back into his coat pocket as they rounded the corner into a quieter street.

Thomas frowned, cheeks hollowing as he took a deep drag of his cigarette. "I doubt it. If you find your own thoughts difficult, how could you possibly begin to comprehend someone else's?"

"Maybe they'd at least be finished— I can't finish thinking about one thing before I'm thinking about something else and then I have too many thoughts and they're all unfinished," Jimmy frowned. "It's easier just to blurt them out— when they're in my head they don't make sense."

"But they do when you voice them?" Thomas raised an eyebrow.

"Not always," Jimmy conceded wryly, taking the cigarette from between Thomas' gloved fingers and feeling the warmth from where Thomas' mouth had been when he placed it between his lips. He took a long drag and handed it back to Thomas before continuing. "It means I'm too impulsive. I wish I thought about things before I said them— I wish I was more cautious the way you are."

"Don't wish that," Thomas said impassively, blowing smoke out into the frozen air. He met Jimmy's gaze, grey and unreadable. "You're lucky. You don't need to be cautious."

And Jimmy suddenly felt distinctly uncomfortable and foolish; he'd led the conversation but he hadn't realised its destination, which was ultimately the destination of any of his conversations with Thomas if they were pursued to the end. He wanted to ask Thomas questions, but they somehow froze on the tip of his tongue like the smoke curling through the air between them and fading as they walked. The dark circles under Thomas' eyes made them look almost blue against all the grey surrounding them, and they somehow hurt to look at— so Jimmy stared at his feet instead, watching them move over the cracks in the pavement.

He searched around desperately for something to say, but before he could think of something that wasn't trite or pointless, Thomas opened his mouth.

"So, where do you want to walk?" he asked coolly.

"I don't mind," Jimmy said honestly, his mind still caught up in the words that had been spoken a few paces back.

"Well, hat makes a change," Thomas remarked lightly, raising his eyebrows slightly.

"How… how about over there?" Jimmy suggested suddenly, pointing across the road to slightly rusting gothic ironwork gates of a park. It looked like a room that hadn't been opened for years; dusty with bleak frost and stark trees that shivered without their leaves. The ground was frozen and grey like the sky, and wound its way through the lonely trees in a path that was strewn with dead leaves coated in ice and decay. It should have been austere and uninviting, yet somehow so much coldness glittered.

"If you like," Thomas shrugged easily, exhaling in a plume of smoke. "But first, I think there's a shop just round the corner that you might like."

Jimmy frowned, turning to look at Thomas. "What shop?"

"Wait and see," Thomas said impassively. He tossed his cigarette to the ground and led the way around the corner and into a narrower lane that was lit with Christmas lights that made the sky look greyer than ever.

"Where are we going?" Jimmy demanded, falling in to step with Thomas.

"Here," Thomas said, coming to a halt outside a tiny, cosily lit shop to their left. The window was slightly grimy and a slightly peeling sign that read 'Arthur's Music' hung over the doorway.

Jimmy looked questioningly at Thomas, but the other man merely raised his eyebrows ever so slightly and held the door open for Jimmy.

Inside, the shop was warm and dusty compared to the sharpness of the November air outside and smelt like old books and violin resin. It was dimly lit, and the tall shelves seemed to bow under the weight of the endless music books and sheets. Jimmy gazed around in wonder, taking in the seemingly endless shelves of songs and sonatas and duets all waiting to be played under the dust.

"…How many pieces of music do you think there are?" Jimmy asked in hushed tones, staring up at the cramped shelves. He glanced around to find Thomas' inscrutable grey eyes already on him. Jimmy fleetingly wondered how Thomas could find him more interesting than all the music in the shop.

"Pick one," Thomas said impassively, but Jimmy caught a faint flicker of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Or two."

Jimmy frowned, perplexed. "What do you mean?"

"Your Christmas present," Thomas said evenly.

Jimmy's eyes widened. "But it's only November, Mr. Barrow."

"Well, I thought I might get yours early, seeing as there's nowhere like this back at Downton," Thomas said. His tone was cool and unaffected, but Jimmy could see his eyes glittering in the dim lighting of the shop. "Go on. Pick one, Jimmy."

"Oh— Mr. Barrow," Jimmy couldn't help the grin spreading across his face. "Thank you."

"It's nothing," Thomas said coolly, but he was smiling slightly too, and for the first time that day, the dark circles under his eyes looked less pronounced. "Perhaps it will give you something to do other than pester me with questions." He raised his eyebrows teasingly at Jimmy.

"If that was your hope then I'm sorry to say it will be in vain," Jimmy grinned, running his finger across the sheets of music on the shelf beside him and turning to look at Thomas. "I'm afraid that I can't think that anything would be better than asking questions— not even sheet music, although that comes a close second."

"I'm not sure I will ever understand what you find so wonderful about questions," Thomas remarked quietly, gaze intent. For once, Thomas expression did not give the impression that he could read everything; it was tinted with a curiosity that Jimmy rarely saw on the surface.

"Well, I'm not sure I will, either," Jimmy replied honestly, picking up a folder marked 'London jazz arrangements' and flipping through it.

"Perhaps that's why," Thomas mused.

Jimmy looked at him for a moment— the angular cheekbones and inscrutable grey eyes and black hair slicked seamlessly back— and smiled slightly. "Perhaps."

Thomas returned it slightly before turning to look at the shelves himself. They stood in silence for a while as Jimmy looked through various arrangements and compositions, searching for the sheets that were marked 'duets'. Outside, the sky was beginning to darken with the heaviness of the snow it held, and the lamps had been lit, even though it was barely three o'clock.

"What did you like to play? When you were young, I mean," Jimmy asked suddenly, looking up at Thomas. He caught a flicker of surprise in Thomas' grey eyes, but it was masked quickly.

"It's too long ago for me to remember," Thomas said in a tone that made Jimmy sure this was not actually the case. However, he did not press the point, and instead slid the folder he was holding back onto the shelf and held up two pieces of sheet music.

"I think I'll go with these ones then if that's alright with you, Mr. Barrow," he said, unable to suppress a grin.

"It's your Christmas present, not mine," Thomas remarked, raising an eyebrow at Jimmy.

"Well, partially…" Jimmy held out the pieces for Thomas to see.

"Duets." A reluctant smile seemed to be pulling at the corners of Thomas' mouth although he tried hard to mask it. "I suppose I should have seen that coming."

"Now you'll have to play with me when we get back, Mr. Barrow" Jimmy grinned. Thomas said nothing, but he didn't try to stop himself from smiling this time and simply grinned back, the smile splitting across his face for a split second and Jimmy thought that even if Thomas didn't play duets with him when they got home, it was somehow worth it just to see that.

As Thomas went to pay for them at the counter, it suddenly struck Jimmy that all the questions had begun because he'd accidentally played something on the piano that Thomas' mother had used to play. Jimmy wondered how it had gone from being friendly acquaintances with Thomas, sharing cigarette breaks or exchanged glances of contempt across the breakfast table, to being desperate to know Thomas better than anyone else ever had or ever would. A few months ago, Jimmy would never have imagined that he could have been so interested in someone else; that he'd end up sitting side by side at the piano, playing duets with a man whose life he'd once tried to ruin. Yet somehow, it didn't feel as surreal as Jimmy would have expected it to have done.

"So," Thomas pulled his lighter from his coat pocket and flared it, lighting the cigarette between his lips. "Questions."

They had left the music shop and were sitting on a peeling wooden bench under frail poplar trees in the park, which was silent and full of frost that crunched underfoot. The clouds in the sky were greyer than ever, and the air was painfully bitter, making the frosty grass glitter in anguish and the red berries on the trees shrivel.

"We agreed that we have two extra each as well as the ones for today, didn't we?" Jimmy asked, unwrapping the mince pies they'd bought at the baker a few doors down from the music shop. The paper around them was still warm, and the smell of spices and pastry curled into the bitter air.

Thomas glanced at Jimmy, the smallest of smirks pulling at his mouth— but he said nothing, merely exhaled in a plume of smoke that overpowered the spice of the mince pies and the taste of imminent snow in the cold air.

"You go first, then," he said evenly, taking another drag of his cigarette so his cheeks hollowed out, emphasising the sharp angles of his cheekbones.

Jimmy paused for a moment, staring at the mince pies in his lap. He cast his mind over the array of questions he wanted to ask Thomas, but they were suddenly all a meaningless blur now that Thomas was sitting beside him on the peeling wood of the bench under the frozen poplar trees, much more real than any answers.

"Why did you start smoking?" Jimmy asked after a moment, watching the way the smoke curled from the other man's mouth more easily than words.

"Why?" Thomas repeated questioningly, a slight frown creasing his forehead. He tapped ash to the ground at their feet, where the dead leaves were frozen in time by frost.

Jimmy nodded, breaking off a bit of one of the mince pies and biting into it. Warm, gooey fruit burnt his tongue, sweet and spicy in contrast to the bitterness of the grey November afternoon, where the snow was so prominent in the clouds that it almost seemed visible without having to fall. The tip of Thomas' nose was slightly red from the cold, and faint pink stood out on his cheeks from where the icy wind had stung them as they walked through the park, footsteps crunching on the frosty path.

His grey eyes, instead of blending into the world of heavy grey around them, somehow seemed more vivid than ever in contrast to the pallor of his face and the jet black of his pomaded hair.

"It's better than small talk," Thomas replied after a moment, exhaling slowly and looking at Jimmy.

Jimmy smiled slightly, thinking how ironic it was that he had started smoking for exactly the opposite reason— to have an excuse to talk to Thomas, not avoid it.

"Why are you smiling?" Thomas' voice broke through Jimmy's thoughts and he looked up, shaking his head slightly.

"Never mind," Jimmy replied, still smiling. He broke off another piece of mince pie and offered it to Thomas, who exhaled smokily and took it with gloved fingers, placing it into his mouth. His lips were startlingly red against his pale skin, slightly chapped from the cold and the smoke of his cigarettes.

"My turn, is it?" Thomas asked, swallowing. He passed the cigarette between them, and Jimmy could feel Thomas' gaze on him as he took a drag of it, lingering and heavy.

"Go ahead," Jimmy agreed through his exhale, looking expectantly at Thomas, his heart suddenly beating faster. The other man's expression was completely unreadable, but the two pink spots on his cheeks from the cold were slightly darker as he took the cigarette back from Jimmy and placed it between his lips.

"Alright," Thomas said, blowing smoke into the air and turning back to fix Jimmy with one of those gazes that Jimmy somehow found it impossible to look away from. His grey eyes were so completely unreadable that Jimmy found that he couldn't bring himself to look away until he'd figured out even the tiniest little thing about them. If that was the case, he wondered if he'd ever be able to look away. "When did you learn to play the piano?"

"I was about seven," Jimmy frowned, remembering.

"Did you enjoy it?" Thomas asked, smoke curling from his mouth.

"Not then," Jimmy laughed. "I hated it at first. My teacher was a miserable old bat. She insisted on calling me James and made me play chords at the start and end of every lesson. I don't think I actually enjoyed playing for years— perhaps not even until I came to Downton."

"What do you mean?" Thomas' brow was furrowed in confusion. He'd seemingly forgotten his cigarette between his gloved fingertips; it was burning down, ash dropping to the frosty ground at their feet of its own accord.

"I daresay it was just another thing to show off." Jimmy frowned in surprise at the words he'd just uttered. Around Thomas, he so often seemed to voice things which he didn't know to be true until that moment. Thomas provided answers for Jimmy as much as he did for himself, and Jimmy wasn't sure why, but he was unintentionally honest around Thomas in a way he had never been with anyone.

"I didn't really enjoy playing, just the reaction it got me," Jimmy went on, staring up at the snow-laden sky rather than looking at Thomas, although he could feel the weight of the other man's gaze on him. "But I do enjoy it now. And I enjoy playing duets with you even more," Jimmy added honestly, looking away from the grey clouds and to where Thomas' gaze hadn't left him, as unreadable and astute as ever.

Thomas did say anything, but something in his eyes altered subtly, and Jimmy suddenly felt uncomfortably exposed. He dropped his gaze and took another bit of mince pie, letting the warm, sweet, spicy taste fill his mouth. Without thinking his broke off a piece and held it up to Thomas' lips, feeling the warmth of Thomas' smoky breath against his fingers. In a split second, the dynamic of their interchange altered completely. Thomas rarely let emotions seep into his appearance, but Jimmy didn't miss the fleeting surprise that flashed through his grey gaze at the contact.

The sky suddenly seemed to press much more heavily down on the park, crushing all the oxygen from the air to replace it with pregnant grey. Jimmy could feel the soft, slightly chapped warmth of Thomas' lips against his cold fingers, and his heart was suddenly thudding so fast in his chest that he couldn't think straight as he stared at Thomas, frozen to the spot.

The pink on Thomas' cheeks had flushed darker, and Jimmy suddenly realised that his fingers were still lingering on Thomas' lips. Feeling the embarrassment burning his own cheeks, Jimmy jerked his hand away, putting it back in his lap and dropping his gaze to the frosty ground, heart thumping. He couldn't believe how careless he had been again, how painfully easy it was to accidentally trample fragile line of their friendship in a few, simple seconds.

The air between them felt frozen, as though it had stopped the moment Jimmy had made the silly, impulsive move. He hadn't meant to do it at all; when he was with Thomas, it was almost as though he wasn't in control of his thoughts or actions. He hadn't even realised he'd done it until he'd felt the blood burning beneath Thomas' lips, so red compared to the cold— it was just how he gave Thomas answers without realising their truth until they were out of his mouth. Jimmy could feel guilt pooling uncomfortably in his stomach, curdling with the sweetness of the mince pie that he could still taste in his mouth.

For a split second, Jimmy suddenly thought that his vision was blurring as he stared out tensely across the lonely, frozen space of the darkening park so that he wouldn't have to look and Thomas and have the guilt pool in his stomach— but then he looked up, and realised that it was snowing. Soft, tentative flakes of white were tumbling from the anguished sky and melting at the hard concrete ground at their feet.

"It's snowing," Jimmy exclaimed in delight, turning to look at Thomas.

"It is," Thomas replied evenly in a detached sort of tone. He didn't look at Jimmy, and Jimmy could see a muscle jumping in Thomas' jaw. Silence fell between them again, as heavy and inescapable as the snow that fell from the bruised, steely sky.

Jimmy swallowed uncomfortably. There was still half of the mince pie left, cooling in the paper, but he no longer felt like eating it. He couldn't tear his gaze from Thomas' rigid posture. Every time Jimmy accidentally got too close, Thomas seemed to freeze like an animal under attack. Jimmy couldn't imagine how difficult it would be to be friends with someone, yet be unable to ever relax in their presence. He felt indescribably awful to think that he was the source of so much discomfort for the other man.

"Do you sometimes wish that you weren't friends with me?" Jimmy asked suddenly, his voice feeling uncomfortably loud in the silence that had settled between them like a thin blanket of snow.

He looked up, watching the way that Thomas' grey eyes seemed to reflect the falling snowflakes. They were more impossibly grey than the sky overhead, and Jimmy could feel the subtle warmth of Thomas' body beside him were they sat squashed together in the cold.

"No," Thomas said after a moment, his voice slightly quieter than usual. The pink still stood out on his cheekbones, softening the sharpness of his features despite the clench of his jaw. "I wish it was easier to be friends with you."

"I wish it was too," Jimmy said quietly, folding his hands uncomfortably in his lap. He looked at Thomas, who was so utterly striking against the falling snow; wine-red lips, jet black hair and intense black pupils that eclipsed the grey of his eyes and made his gaze heavy and warm despite the bitterness of the sky.

"We should be getting back," Thomas said abruptly, but his tone wasn't unkind.

"But what about the rest of our questions?" Jimmy asked, his heart sinking. "You've got two left, and I've got one."

Thomas didn't say anything for a moment; he placed a cigarette between his lips and lit it, taking a long drag and exhaling slowly into the bitter air. The snow mingled with the snowflakes uncomfortably. "How about I ask you one now, and then we both have one each later?"

"When's later?" Jimmy pressed, watching Thomas anxiously.

"I'm sure there'll be time after the ball this evening," Thomas said coolly, taking another drag of the cigarette.

"Alright," Jimmy agreed. "What's your question, then?"

"Give me a moment to think of one," Thomas said impassively. Smoke spilled from his lips as he stared out at the falling snow. Jimmy watched Thomas smoke his way through the cigarette, his gloved fingers perfectly still despite the fact his cheeks were still slightly flushed.

"Who's the best friend you've ever had?" Thomas asked eventually, taking a last drag of the cigarette and crushing it under the heel of his shoe. Smoke faded into the air, like a fleeting idea that couldn't hold onto reality and was enveloped by its enormity.

Jimmy pushed the mince pie crumbs into a little pile on the paper in his lap, considering. "I don't suppose I've ever been particularly good at making friends," he conceded, shaping the crumbs into a clumsy star. He could feel the weight of Thomas' gaze on him.

"I find that hard to believe."

Jimmy looked up, meeting Thomas' unflinchingly grey gaze that gave the impression of seeing everything at the same time as giving nothing away.

"Really?" Jimmy challenged, more quietly than he had meant to. Snow always seemed to deepen the quality of silence. "I've never really been interested enough in someone other than myself to be a good friend to them. I've never really wanted a friend— and anyone who ever became something close I always manage to hurt by being so thoughtless. I suppose I've only ever really had one true friend."

"Oh?" Thomas' expression conveyed mild disinterest, but Jimmy could see the curiosity in his inscrutable gaze.

"You know it's you, Mr. Barrow," Jimmy said, suddenly feeling uncharacteristically embarrassed. He could feel his cheeks heating up, and he looked back at his lap, scattering the star of crumbs with his fingers.

Thomas didn't say anything, but he nudged Jimmy gently with his elbow. "Come on," he said, but the tone of his voice had softened, lost its discerning edge. "They'll be expecting us back soon."

The snow fell like dust motes in a lonely room, and was already covering their footsteps as they left the park, coating the rusting bench they'd sat on— as if they'd never been there at all.

By the time Jimmy finished serving at the ball, it was well after midnight and the snow was falling more heavily outside as he made his way to the servants' quarters, a strange mixture of anticipation and nervousness curdling in the pit of his stomach. Ever since he'd left the snow park with Thomas earlier that day, he hadn't been able to get rid of a peculiar, uneasy feeling that had settled somewhere between his lungs. It was like something he desperately needed to say yet kept swallowing down, and every time he did so it swelled up further— only Jimmy had no idea what it might be that he needed to say.

When he pushed open the door to the shared room, the feeling intensified. The room was dimly lit from the lamp on the vanity, and Thomas was sitting on the floor, back against his bed. He was smoking lazily, dinner jacket discarded and hair falling out of its pomade. There was a half-empty bottle of wine on the carpet beside him and smoke lingered above him in a murky haze as though he'd been there a while. He looked up fleetingly at the sound of Jimmy closing the door behind him, his careful expression slightly less guarded than usual, as though the alcohol had softened it.

"Bloody hell, if I have to serve one more drink, I think I'll have a fit," Jimmy groused, pulling off his livery jacket and throwing it onto his bed. He flopped down on the floor opposite Thomas, pushing a hand through his blonde hair and letting out a heavy sigh as he loosened his bow-tie and undid the top buttons of his shirt.

"Do you have any objections to drinking it yourself?" Thomas asked coolly, offering the half-empty wine bottle to Jimmy. His lips were stained slightly from it, making them look startlingly dark against his pale skin. The dark circles under his eyes seemed more pronounced than ever in the shadows of the room.

"Definitely not," Jimmy said emphatically, gratefully taking the bottle from Thomas. The space between the two beds was relatively small, so he didn't even have to stretch to reach it, feeling the fleeting brush of warmth as Thomas handed it over to him.

Jimmy took a long swig, letting the lukewarm alcohol fill his senses before setting back down on the floor between them, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

"Where did you get this?"

"No one would have noticed its absence," Thomas replied evenly, taking a drag of his cigarette and exhaling lazily.

"How long have you been up here?" Jimmy persisted, noticing the way that Thomas' composure was slightly less careful than usual and his movements were fluid and less measured. His dark hair was ruffled and softening from the pomade and he didn't look so uncomfortable in Jimmy's presence the way he had earlier. He looked different, somehow— as if a little of the composure had faded with the effects of the liberated wine.

"A while," Thomas said composedly, knocking ash into the already overflowing tray beside him. "Lord Grantham went up early, so I had nothing left to do."

"Lucky you," Jimmy said sourly, taking another long gulp of wine. "Charlie, the footman I was serving cocktails with, is obnoxious.

"More obnoxious than you?" Thomas quipped, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth as he exhaled in a plume of smoke that clouded the already smoky atmosphere of the dimly lit room.

Jimmy deftly swiped the cigarette from between Thomas' elegant fingers in retaliation. "I am a delight to work with, I'll have you know," he said indignantly, tilting his head back and taking a long drag of the cigarette, letting the warm smoke fill his lungs.

"I'm sure Alfred would agree," Thomas raised an eyebrow.

"Well, Charlie is awful," Jimmy scowled, exhaling and handing the cigarette back to Thomas. "He's so bloody clumsy, too. He knocked into me— apparently accidentally— and I snagged the thread on my jacket. It's the only one I have with me, I don't know what I'll do for tomorrow."

"I can mend it for you, if you like," Thomas offered evenly, swallowing a mouthful of the wine straight from the bottle, somehow managing to make the action look elegant.

Jimmy looked up, exhaling smoke. "Really?"

"I still have the sewing box from mending Lord Grantham's dinner jacket this morning," Thomas replied impassively. He put the cigarette between his lips and stood up, going across to the vanity from where the dull light was emanating, and picking up the little sewing box.

"Thanks," Jimmy said, taking another gulp of wine as Thomas sat back down in front of him. His shirt was slightly creased and the bow tie was undone, and Jimmy thought that Thomas looked the most relaxed he had all day.

"Where is the stitching torn?" Thomas asked, taking the cigarette from his mouth and handing it to Jimmy as he eyed the lapel of the jacket. "It might be easier if you take it off," he added coolly.

"Can't you do it while it's on?" Jimmy asked. "This room isn't particularly warm."

Thomas seemed to hesitate for a split second, and Jimmy could see the muscles in his jaw clench and unclench before he spoke. "Fine," he said curtly after a second. He took another sip of wine and opened up the sewing box. "Show me where it needs darned, then."

"Just here, under my collar," Jimmy said, pointing to the left lapel of the jacket. "I'm going to kill Johnson."

"I hardly think that would help," Thomas remarked coolly, threading the needle. He glanced up for a moment, expression utterly unreadable. "You'll need to sit closer to me if you want me to fix it while you're wearing it."

Obligingly, Jimmy shifted closer to Thomas on the floor, so that there were only a few inches between them and Jimmy could almost feel the warmth of Thomas' breath in the space between them. Something seemed to happen to the atmosphere between them; the distance between them suddenly felt much more pronounced to Jimmy despite the fact it had lessened. For some reason, he could feel his heart thumping in his chest as Thomas bowed his head, running his fingertips along the hem of the lapel and feeling for the broken stitching. The light pressure of his fingertips against Jimmy's chest felt oddly lulling.

In some futile attempt to distract himself from the change in atmosphere, Jimmy took another long gulp of wine straight from the bottle.

"That stuff's pretty strong," he remarked, feeling the room spin slightly as he moved his head to watch Thomas' fingers working on the fabric at his chest.

"It is," Thomas agreed.

For several moments, Thomas sewed in silence, and Jimmy felt that the quiet was buzzing in his ears. He felt the inexplicable desire to fill it, to do something to take the focus away from the way he could taste the wine on Thomas' breath between them and feel the slight pressure of Thomas' knee against his.

"I'm surprised you're not asking questions," Thomas said after a few more moments of silence as he glanced up fleetingly to thread the needle. His gaze met Jimmy's grey and subtly amused.

"Well, seeing as you asked…" Jimmy raised his eyebrows. He paused for a moment, taking another gulp of wine as he cast his thoughts round his mind for something to ask, the taste of alcohol overpowering his senses. The last time he'd drunk was in the pub with Ivy. He fleetingly wondered if Thomas had ever gone drinking with a girl— if he'd ever taken a girl out and kissed her the way Jimmy had kissed Ivy in the startling darkness of the walk home.

"Have you ever been with a girl?" Jimmy asked suddenly, staring at Thomas and trying to picture him sitting with someone like Ivy in the pub in the village. He couldn't quite imagine it, but he would hardly have found it surprising; he knew that Thomas was handsome and had often thought how ironic it was that so many girls threw appraising glances in Thomas' direction that were completely worthless.

Thomas looked up, the pupils slightly wider than normal in his grey eyes. Jimmy could feel the warmth of Thomas' knee pressed against his, and feel the slight pressure of where Thomas' hand was still resting against his chest.

"Once," he replied slowly, eyes not leaving Jimmy's. "Just so that I knew it wasn't what I wanted."

For some reason Jimmy suddenly got a vivid flashback of how disgusting it had felt to kiss Ivy; how her lips had been too slippery and sweet and how her hair was too long and tangled in Jimmy's fingers, trapping him. Jimmy frowned, taking another swig of wine and setting the bottle down clumsily on the floor— only a little of the red liquid spilled over the side and onto the black material of Thomas' trousers.

"Oh, I'm sorry Mr. Barrow," Jimmy mumbled, hurriedly reaching out to wipe the wine from Thomas' thigh. The second his fingers made contact with the material of Thomas' trousers, Jimmy felt him freeze— but for some reason, he couldn't quite bring himself to let go. It was almost as if he himself had frozen too; he was barely aware of what he was doing, yet it suddenly seemed inexplicably important. Curiously, tentatively, Jimmy trailed his fingertips a little way up Thomas' thigh, hearing Thomas' breath hitch in the suddenly deafening silence of the room. Somewhere distant, Jimmy knew it wasn't a good idea— but he couldn't quite bring himself to stop. It felt as though he was seconds away from an answer, and he couldn't bring himself to stop asking the questions that would lead to it.

He could feel the warmth of Thomas' breath in the small space between them, and the points where their bodies touched suddenly seemed much more evident.

"Jimmy…" Thomas' voice was throaty and hoarse, as though it was difficult to speak.

Jimmy looked up fleetingly at the sound of his voice, heart thudding, hand still lingering on Thomas' thigh where he could feel the warmth of Thomas' body beneath the thin fabric. When he glanced up from where his fingertips were resting on Thomas' leg, he suddenly thought that he hadn't remembered quite how close Thomas was sitting to him; he could count the blue flecks that were like rain in Thomas' grey eyes, and feel the unsteady warmth of Thomas' shallow breaths against his cheeks where the pores melted from pallor into flushed pink.

It was so rare for Thomas to wear his emotions on the outside— occasionally his eyes would flicker for a split second, unable to completely contain them— but other than that, he was seamless. But now he looked nothing short of tormented; his eyes were blazing, shadowed by sleepless circles, the black of his pupils intense and blown, colour standing out high on his cheeks, shockingly pink against the contrast of his jet black hair flopped across his forehead.

Jimmy suddenly couldn't help thinking that he looked so wonderfully discomposed. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen Thomas look so unguarded— not even when he'd been asleep. It sent a slight thrill through Jimmy's body that made something curl deep in the pit of his stomach and tingle in the tips of his fingers that were still rested on Thomas' thigh. It was a pulling sensation; almost like a magnetic force.

"Jimmy… what are you doing?" Thomas whispered quietly, his voice soft and anguished. He looked as though he was enduring some kind of necessary pain.

"I don't know," Jimmy mumbled honestly, moving his fingers slightly and gently squeezing Thomas' thigh. He heard Thomas stifle some kind of noise as he did so, and glanced up, eyes wide. Thomas' cheeks were burnt pink like they had been when Jimmy had got too close that afternoon in the park, his pupils huge and heavy with blackness like they had been that time Jimmy had traced the scars on Thomas' palm, his breathing shallow and unsteady like it had been when they'd played duets together on the piano and Jimmy had sat too close.

Jimmy didn't know quite why he couldn't bring himself to let go— he just couldn't quite bring himself to end the moment just yet. Even though his heart was racing, his hand was perfectly steady where it touched Thomas and Jimmy felt peculiarly calm, as though he was in some kind of dreamlike state. He tightened his grip on Thomas' thigh, feeling the warmth of it under the scratchy material of his livery trousers.

"I— Jimmy," Thomas sounded breathless and torn between pain and pleasure, and when Jimmy didn't look up but continued to stare at his own hand where it grasped Thomas, he tried to push Jimmy's hand away. Jimmy could feel the urgency in the movement, and reluctantly removed his hand, suddenly finding it hard to breathe as he looked up and got caught in Thomas' heavy gaze.

Thomas dropped his gaze almost instantly as though burnt, even though it was his own gaze that was blazing, and made to move away— but Jimmy put his hand back on Thomas' leg, thumb moving in tiny, tentative circles on the inside of his thigh. He audibly heard Thomas stifle the groan in his chest. The sound reverberated out into the silence and did something peculiar to Jimmy's stomach. He could taste the wine in the air between them, feel the warmth of Thomas' uneven breaths against his neck, and suddenly felt a lot less calm— but he still couldn't bring himself to let go.

It felt almost as though he understood Thomas, like this, as if this was the answer to all the questions— just seeing Thomas like this. The less he knew about himself, the more important it seemed to know Thomas, and now nothing seemed more important.

Jimmy let his gaze wander over Thomas, taking it all in. He wondered if Thomas' heart was thudding wildly the way he could feel his own doing, if his breathing caught in his lungs the way Jimmy's felt as though it was. Two spots of pink stood out on Thomas' pale cheeks, softening the usually angular lines of his cheekbones, his pulse fluttered in the exposed skin of his throat, and Jimmy could see his chest rising and falling sharply. Jimmy let his gaze stray lower, and with a jolt that suddenly made everything seem very real, realised that Thomas was aroused. The material of his trousers was unmistakably tight around his erection, and Jimmy felt something curl in the pit of his stomach again at the sight.

He looked up in shock, his gaze somehow getting tangled with Thomas' blazing one. For a moment, they just stared at each other, breathing shallowly in the smoky, dimly lit room. Jimmy felt he could almost taste the tension in the air between them, and the darkness of Thomas' pupils did not decrease— if anything, it darkened, but when he spoke, his voice was painfully even.

"Do I disgust you?" Thomas' voice was quiet, but full of bitterness.

Jimmy looked up, hand frozen where it was on Thomas' thigh. Thomas' eyes were smouldering grey, and his cheeks were flushed red as he looked almost defiantly at Jimmy— but Jimmy could see the complete uncertainty behind the blown, black pupils. Being in love is being scared, Thomas had once told him. Jimmy cleared his throat, suddenly feeling as though he'd forgotten how to speak properly.

"No one… no one has ever disgusted me less," he replied honestly. His voice felt heavy in his throat, his heart was thumping behind the confines of his ribs, and his fingertips were tingling were they touched Thomas as though they were close to something profound. The other man closed his eyes, looking serene for a split second, then he carefully pushed Jimmy's hand away.

"You've had a lot to drink," Thomas' voice was breathless and rough. "You— you should go to bed."

"I don't want to," Jimmy replied unsteadily, tracing his fingertips further up Thomas' thigh so that they were inches away from where he could see Thomas' erection straining against the material of his trousers. Arousal pooled acutely and suddenly in Jimmy's groin, utterly unmistakable. He tried to shake away the blurry miasma of thoughts swirling through his head, the taste of wine overpowering his mouth. He'd never wanted answers so much in his life.

Thomas made a stifled sound as Jimmy began to rub his fingers in circles, and the sound sent a fresh wave of arousal through Jimmy.

"You… God… you don't make it easy for me to be friends with you, Jimmy…" Thomas let out a shaky breath, his eyes fluttering closed. His fists were clenched as though he was enduring some kind of torture. Jimmy could see the little red, angry half-moon shapes on his palm where his nails had dug in. The colour stood out high on Thomas' cheeks.

"Good," Jimmy murmured, feeling half as though he was in some kind of dream. His heart was racing and he couldn't think straight and he could feel Thomas' shallow breaths against the side of his neck. He traced his hand a few centimetres further up Thomas' thigh, and felt Thomas tense.

"You should go to bed," Thomas said again, almost inaudibly. It sounded as though he was speaking through gritted teeth.

"I already said—"

"I mean it," Thomas said quietly, his tone suddenly a lot harder. Jimmy glanced up, staring the way Thomas' grey eyes blazed with colour and his cheeks were flushed and his jaw was clenched so tightly it made his cheekbones almost uncomfortably sharp. Thomas slowly pushed Jimmy's hand away and then stood up abruptly, leaving Jimmy sitting alone on the floor, thoughts whirling.

"Get some sleep, Jimmy. You'll be yourself in the morning," Thomas' voice was quiet and pained as he turned away, pulling on his livery jacket and picking up his cigarettes from the vanity.

Jimmy suddenly felt completely lost, as though he was no longer himself and hadn't been since he'd stepped into the room. The impact of what he'd done suddenly felt as though it was crushing him, and he couldn't bear to look at Thomas' turned back. He staggered up from the floor and fell into his bed, head still swirling with alcohol and unanswerable questions that suddenly instead of making him feel light and dizzy weighed him down sickeningly.

Outside the snow was falling more freely than ever, and his heart was thumping so fast he felt as though it would break— not just in two, but into uncountable shards that could never be repaired to make the same picture.

**A/N: Hi, just a quick note to say a massive thanks to the lovely comments! I can't tell you how much they mean. I'm relatively new to and am still working out how to use it, so apologies for not replying to the reviews yet… I'm trying to figure out how! Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this instalment… as always, feedback is hugely appreciated! 3 **


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